


Pride And Prejudice + Tentacles

by Violetlyvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Cas, Breeding Kink, Classical Literature Remix, M/M, Marine Biology, Period typical discrimination, Sub Dean, Time Travel, True Mates, Trueform Cas, austen au, creature cas, dom Cas, gender fluid dean, gothic romance tropes, pride and prejudice au, romance tropes, tentacle fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-02-08 19:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18630124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetlyvanilla/pseuds/Violetlyvanilla
Summary: Castiel, a time travelling space alien, one of the few remaining of his species, is on an urgent scientific recon mission to research the mating habits of earthlings and analyse the potential breeding opportunities for his kind. Georgian era England seemed a promising time period to try, what with all the unwedded young people desperately looking for their mates in Bath, bars and balls. Castiel is quickly enchanted with Dean, the eldest of three wayward sons and secretly a salacious Gothic novel writer to boot. Though the chances of a successful mating between him and Dean seemed low, especially given how much Dean liked to laugh at his amorous attempts, Castiel is determined to try his best with scientific rigour and intellectual passion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Weekly updates :D 
> 
> Pride And Prejudice reinterpreted as Destiel Tentacle fic. 
> 
> I’m a huge fan of Malmuses’ Personal Space and couldn’t help but write my own tentacle Cas fic after falling in love with her version. This won’t be nearly as good and is quite different, but it is my own fic happy place. Check out Personal Space and its sequel Earthly Desires here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1267475

Many years ago, one of Dean’s ancestors (a Dr Henry Winchester) planted a grove of apple trees for the sole purpose of making the best cider in the county. It took almost a hundred years for the saplings to turn into grand trunks, the canopies were each wider than the roof of their stone cottage house with its many attachments and built-ons. It was in one of the biggest of the apple trees that Dean liked to retreat, high up amidst the gnarled branches, astride the thickest log with a Gothic novel and his own journal. The writing implements he kept in a waterproof pouch with his folded hunting knife and his father John Winchester’s whisky flask being repurposed as a portable inkwell. He did not have much to remember his father by, given that he disappeared when Dean was only ten years of age. It was his mother Mary Winchester-Campbell who kept the small farm going despite all the difficulties of raising three children on her own. There was Dean the eldest, Sam the youngest of Mary’s children and also Adam. A foundling who appeared a year after John Winchester disappeared from the Moors one cold Winter’s night. The strange circumstances of Dean’s childhood made for excellent fodder for his writing, which he did in secret and in all his precious idle time. 

From the canopy of the tallest tree, Dean had an unsurpassed view of their modest but well run estate and the surrounding fields. To the East was their immediate neighbour Mr Singer who ran the local forge and though technically a blacksmith by trade and therefore not a gentleman, the most gentle man Dean knew. Not with his words but in his actions, Dean remembered when he was younger in the bitterest of Winters, Mr Singer would show up at their door with crates full of firewood. He had ordered too much for the forge, these spindlings did not burn hot enough to melt the iron, they fell off a wagon passing by the high roads. A hundred and one increasingly ridiculous excuses just so that Mary would accept the much needed fuel and could keep the house warm and toasty all through the Christmas season. Mr Singer had been a friend of John Winchester’s, though there had been something of a falling out not long before John went missing. The aid lasted for years until Dean and Sam grew up into strong and hardworking men and now occasionally they were the ones who delivered fuel to Mr Singer’s workshop. What began as kind gestures out of necessity eventually grew into a long abiding friendship between Mr Singer’s household and Mary Winchesters. A friendship Dean treasured. 

To the South was the township of Angelfell itself, less than an hour’s walk, or half an hour if Dean jogged all the way. The town was a sea port and from this high up Dean could glimpse the gleam of distant sapphire water. The port was a busy one, both as a mercantile route for the traders to stock up on the produce of the county, wheat, wool, ciders and such; but also as a stop over point for the navy going out to sea to fight glorious battles for the colonial empire. The Church where the townsfolk gathered and where Sam studied and taught was also in the village square. Sam was learning theology with a good chance of gaining his own Parish in the future. To the West, a fair ride away, was the holdings of the Duchess Rowena McLeod, widely rumoured to be a witch. Then, finally, gleaming in the North like a fair jewel, the grand house Hitherfield Hall which was said to be owned by a distant aristocratic family not seen to live in the area for generations and quite recently rented to a wealthy gentleman hailing from London by the name of Gabriel Milton. 

All this information Dean knew from the needlework group he attended with his friend Miss Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Bradbury, who was terrible at cross stitches but very good with gossip. So now, Dean watched with some disbelief as he two horses were seen coming down the main road, galloping at speed. Two well dressed gentlemen sitting in the saddles, racing each other through the trees. They did not see Dean high up in his perch and he could them talking. 

“Come on Castiel, you’ve the best horse in the Kingdom and yet you ride like a fish out of water!”

Dean could see the face of the man who was goading the other. He was fair with sandy blond hair and a cheerful smile. He turned out to be short in stature when he dismounted from the expensive looking tall white stallion. His suit was well-cut, if a little over colourful, London fashions being somewhat garish this season. Dean thought he matched the description of Gabriel Milton that Charlie had so vividly provided from the accounts of her handmaidens. (Charlie, much to her own chagrin, was a Lady, a title she had inherited. And as such she had maids, though she often jokingly referred to her best friend Dean as her Chief Handmaiden. A title he quietly cherished.) 

The man known only by his unusual first name, Castiel, was galloping in circles in the orchard. Churning up the ground with the hooves of his mount. His nose turned up into the air, like was trying to catch some sort of scent. Most of his face was covered by the handsome top hat perched low over his brows, but Dean did glimpse a sharp jawline and a flash of something jewel blue. The horse he was riding made Dean’s jaw drop and his mouth water. He had never seen such a handsome beast in his life. It was a gelding, still young, but his lines were so sleek and fluid that he seemed light on his feet. Dean could only imagine how fast that horse could go and the clumsy way Castiel ran it in circles in Dean’s orchard, trampling over the harvest of woodland mushrooms, annoyed Dean so much that he grabbed an old wormy apple off the nearest branch and threw it at his head. 

Dean was an excellent shot, but Castiel seemed to be blessed with lightning reflexes. His gloved hand was out in front of his face before the apple had even left Dean’s grasp. He snatched the apple out of the thin air, smelt the rotting fruit with an appreciative flare of his nostrils and then devoured the whole thing in appallingly messy gulps. The juices running down his chin, his jaw unlocking wide, Dean definitely saw flashes of a too wide, too long, too red tongue stir the infested pulp and swallow the whole thing down, skin, core, stem and all. Dean watched astounded as Castiel licked his gloved fingers and then ever so primly, took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed it at the corners of his mouth delicately. Promptly he turned his horse around and cantered until he was beside Gabriel, dismounting in a graceful fashion and tipping his hat to Mary who had come to the door wearing breeches, a bloodied ax in one hand and holding a beheaded cock in the other. 

Knowing how much his mother disdained civil company, Dean quickly climbed down the tree and ran towards the house. This he had to see. 

“Mrs Winchester? I am sorry to come unannounced but Ms Harvelle the Publican of The Medusa’s Head told me that you are the only person who can provide my estate with that ambrosia like cider I tasted in her wonderful seaside drinking establishment?”

“It’s a piss hole but she does a decent Sunday roast when I feel too lazy to cook for the boys,” Mary said with her hand stretched over the door, barring any possible entry. “You want to buy my cider, send your cook, no need to come calling yourself dressed like two grooms on their wedding day. Well, your friend looks more like an undertaker.” 

Dean sidled up to the door, the dogs running out of the house to greet him with slobbering maws. Sam followed closely behind the dogs, watching the newcomers with a curious but friendly expression. Adam was still hiding inside the house, being naturally shy in temperament, though Dean could see him peeking through the lace curtains over the kitchen sink. Dean smirked as he stood by Mary and sized up the two unwelcome visitors. The one called Castiel was in a sombre black suit that was so plain it looked positively modern, but the fabric was an inky black and reflected the sunlight with a strange opalescence that was quite mesmerising. Up close, Castiel was incredibly handsome, though the word hardly did him justice. His pallor was surprisingly sunny given that he belonged to the upper class who Dean expected dwelled indoors. Perhaps he hunted outdoors frequently, Dean speculated, eyes gliding over the muscled limbs and strong back. Castiel’s hair, now that his hat was respectfully held in his hands, was windswept and a little wild. Dark hair, almost black blue against the bright afternoon sky and such incredible eyes. They were like twin oceans, how Dean imagines the Mediterranean sea, and starlit in their depths, the irises two dark mysterious voids sucking Dean in like whirlpools. Dean was fond of Gothic prose and horror stories and Castiel was in every way the dashing hero described therein. Dean licked his lips, remembering the savagery with which Castiel devoured that foul fruit. There was something dangerous and enticing about him, Dean decided, like a ghoul hiding beneath a civilised skin. Castiel was studying Dean back, his eyes impossibly wide and his head tilting. His figure was upright and stiff but his hands hung delicately by his sides, the long tapered fingers twitching slightly as if he wanted to reach out and touch. Dean winked at him and Castiel stilled his hands and took a step forward, bowing with elegant formality to Mary. 

“My name is Lord Castiel Krushnic Nautilus Novak and this is my friend Mr Gabriel Milton,” Castiel said in a deep voice with an aristocratic but strange accent, his eyes darting from Mary, to Dean. “My friend has come under the pretence of seeking fermented apple juice but in truth we are on a much more urgent errand.” 

Mary raised her eyebrows. “And what might that be?” 

“You are female?” Castiel asked in an uncertain voice, smiling briefly when Mary rolled her eyes and nodded her head. Gabriel calmly extended his leg and pressed the heel of his riding boots over the top of Castiel’s left foot, hard. 

“You are fertile? That is you have borne live young?” Castiel said awkwardly, Gabriel raised his fist to his mouth and bit into his own leather riding glove. “Obviously, your three beautiful daughters here attest to your biological prowess.” 

Dean blushed fiercely, while Sam outright laughed. Gabriel’s eyes darted to Dean’s younger brother, the urbane young man turning a bright shade of crimson as his friend continued to stumble over his strange dialogue. 

“Two sons and Dean is his own person,” Mary said candidly. “If you are looking for unmarried young ladies, you’re sorely mistaken.” 

“They do not need to be ladies,” Castiel blinked rapidly. “That is I am indiscriminate as to gender or species so long as there is sufficient sentience and intelligence. And I believe Gabriel simply prefers to stick to homosapiens.”

Gabriel tore his eyes off Sam’s amused face and shouted “Cider! Too much cider, in the pub, my friend is drunk! Please ignore his most ungentlemanly conduct.” 

“I am not inebriated by any means, my ability to produce venom in fact protects me from intoxication ...” 

“So very drunk, I’m sorry Mrs Winchester ...”

“Ms Winchester-Campbell, please.” 

“Ms Wincehster-Campbell, here is my calling card for Hiterhfield Hall and I would like to cordially invite you and your entire family to a ball held in honour of all the young people of this county. It will be the first ball of the season and a fitting debut to high society for your offsprings.” 

Seeing that Gabriel was trying to swiftly warp up the conversation, and perhaps fearing he had not left a strong enough impression, Castiel leaned forward, draped his hand over Mary’s forearm and whispered confidentially. “I am particularly interested in the biological compatibility of your eldest spawn.” 

Dean barked out a laugh and pulled a face when Mary glared at him. 

“My cider is for sale but my Dean isn’t,” Mary brandished her ax casually as she spoke. “If he wants to run a delivery up to your house in the next couple of days that is entirely up to him. As for the ball, I find those social engagements such a bore. However, it would be good for Adam to get out and about and mingle with fellow people. So if we decide to come, I will send a note to confirm our attendance. Now, given we are neighbours for the Summer, I would ordinarily be polite and invite you both in for lunch, but as you can see we are running a little behind on the cooking.” 

Castiel’s eyes were glued to the freshly slaughtered chicken, he swallowed and smiled with sharp incisors showing. 

“A great pity,” Gabriel gently guided Mary’s waving hand, dead chicken in her grasp, down. “We must decline your hospitality today. My friend has just arrived via the seaport this morning, his ship having broken down and needing repairs. He is not really very good company in his current travel worn state. So yes, please do send word and I do hope that Dean, and Sam, might find the time in their schedule to bring your refreshing brew to our door.” 

Mary nodded and went inside, slamming the door shut with her hip as she went to gut the chicken. Sam tugged on Dean’s sleeve to guide him away but Dean was still watching Castiel mount his horse and depart. 

“What strange men,” Sam said to Dean. “I think they must be Londoners.” 

“Gabriel is from London, theatre tycoon, but Charlie mentioned nothing of his friend Castiel.” 

“Didn’t he say the man just arrived on his ship?” 

“What ship? I heard nothing of a docking due for today.” Dean shook his head. “They are lying about their intentions here and Sam isn’t that just ... wonderful? We have a mystery!”

“He is unusual, is he riding his horse backwards?” 

Dean looked up to see Castiel turned so far around in his saddle that from a distance it did look like he was riding backwards. He was pulling a strange face at Dean. Winking with one eye, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and twirling over his bottom lip in a circular gyrating motion. When he was done making the gesture he smiled and winked again and finally turned around to catch up with his friend. Was that ... some sort of seduction? 

Dean made sure to load up the wagon with crates of cider before the sun had set and was determined to make a delivery to Hiterhfield Hall the very next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean spent much of the night doodling in his handmade book, the carefully cut pages bound together with leather and lace. It was an eclectic thing of beauty- pages of his impressions, journals of aesthetic experience, drawings and words. So many words coming together into twisty and sometimes convoluted tales. Re-imaginings of the people he saw in the town of Angelfell, or the sailors in the docks, his immediate family, the adventures of the dogs in the woods and the migrant birds in the trees. Though that evening, Dean found himself doodling an inky horse-mounted figure on a fresh new page. Having never previously had much interest in the doings of aristocrats (apart from the wild ways of his best friend Lady Bradbury) and being rather disdainful of social company, Dean was intrigued enough by the appalling manners of Lord Castiel Crushing Jellyfish Novak (or whatever his middle names were) to anticipate the dawn so he might set off for Hitherfield Hall at once. 

The whole house was still asleep, though the surviving cock was crowing, when Dean prowled into the wine cellar and dragged flagons of apple cider out for the cart. With a strange feeling of foresight, he dusted off a bottle of the sweet red wine he had made several years ago with crop of grapes he had cultivated in the cramped conservatory. It was a fine vintage and one he never wished to sell. Perhaps the strange Castiel would like a taste of Dean's sweet summer juice, thought Dean with a slight flurry in his stomach that he suspected might be excitement. 

To Dean's surprise, Sam was awake too, plowing his way through a second bowl of porridge and wiping the warm milk froth from his mouth when he saw Dean. 

"Why are you up so early?" Sam said as if Dean was being strange. "I saw the candlelight from beneath your door well into the evening. Did you sleep at all?" 

"Like a drunkard at The Medusa’s Head, after cheap drinks and a heavy meal,” Dean stated brazenly. “After dancing the night away with Madam Ellen and Mistress Joanna-Beth, pillowed on the burley chest of Captain Benny Lafitte.” 

“That’s not your real social life,” Sam snorted. “Last time we were at the pub you scribbled the evening away, staring into the fire, disappointing all the ladies and lads present.” 

“I am an aloof artiste,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And now I am off to run Mary’s errand.” 

“As am I,” Sam stood up, stretching, pulling his shirt down self-consciously, combing his fingers through his shoulder length hair. “Have you adjusted my jacket, the one for Church?” 

Dean tutted but went back to his room and fetched the overcoat. It was a dove grey garment, made with leather trimmings and hardy twill, twice extended in the sleeves and shoulders with the insertion of some attractive strips of velvet. Those scrap pieces of fancy material Dean had bartered on discount from Mrs Tran’s Fabric Emporium in Angelfell, for the price of a few pieces of Dean’s hand crocheted laces and elocution lessons for her son Kevin. 

“Thank you Dean,” Sam looked at Dean’s handiwork with some awe, the expression making him seem younger and Dean smiled gladly at Sam’s delight. “It looks even smarter than before and the design is really very attractive. I will be the envy of the other acolytes.” 

“I would make you a whole new suit if I had the materials,” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “But I’m putting aside trimmings for a dress for Mary as a Christmas present so I haven’t been able to barter for the makings of your suit.”

“When I am finished with my studies, you will not have to toil so much and Mary can be more easy in her management of the estate,” Sam said. “I am sorry I am not much at home these days, what with the seminary and the demands of Mr Crowley.” 

“It isn’t much toil to lend a hand with the farm,” Dean said with good grace. “And in middle of summer I have many idle hours to enjoy my wiles. When you are paid a stipend by the Church and a proud preacher, I will demand silks and pearls of you Sam, worry not.” 

“Parchment and ink is more likely what you will extract,” Sam grinned back at Dean. 

“Or perhaps I will become rich first, when I sell my novel to the masses,” Dean laughed. 

Sam nodded with more sincerity than Dean had expected. “I love your stories, Dean, I am sure you will.” 

Dean threw the jacket at Sam and hurried towards the door, it was glimmering daylight already and something of long trek to prosperous holiday estate of Hitherfield Hall via the old plough horse and even older roads. 

Sam almost collided into Dean in the horse barn door way. 

“What are you doing with Lawrence?” Dean demanded. 

“Tethering him to the cart for the portage of the cider to Gabriel’s estate,” Sam blinked. “That is why I rose early, so I can make the trip before I have to attend classes in mid-morning.” 

Dean felt his own face fall with disappointment. “But I am the one Mary asked to deliver the cider.” 

“She asked for both of us as far as I can recall.” 

“Well Castiel looked at me first and I threw an apple at his head which he caught, so it is me that is called for, truly.” 

Sam’s face transitioned from shock to calculating to mirth. 

“Do you mean the stranger in the black velvet?” Sam asked. “The one with the over large eyes, like a kraken. A leviathan of the deep, mysterious and sinful.” 

“A kraken?” Dean exclaimed. “Well, I certainly didn’t stay up all night thinking of Gabriel the short one with a grin like a toad.” 

“I like toads,” Sam said belligerently. “They are resilient and much scientific study could be made with them.” 

“And is that what you wish to do with Gabriel?” Dean teased. “Study science?” 

They both ran at once towards the cart but Dean was faster despite Sam’s longer strides and he leapt into the driver’s seat at the front of the cart, rein in hand. Sam pulled an annoyed expression and sat down beside Dean. Presently they began the journey to the grand summer residence of Mr Gabriel Milton and his friend Lord Castiel Novak. 

There must have been field hands who passed along news of their coming because Mr Milton was standing by the estate gates, sheltering under an Elderflower hedge, with an excited demeanour. He shook Dean’s hand and then ran around to the other side of the cart to welcome Sam, leading him down to the ground as if a duchess descending an eight-horse carriage. Dean stuck his hands over hips when he saw Gabriel and Sam chatting enthusiastically and walking away into the shade where Gabriel had arranged for an early morning tea to be set up on a picnic blanket. It was a rather small scrap of blanket, Sam’s ass took up half of it and Gabriel knelt beside him proffering a tray of pomegranates leaving no room what so ever for Dean’s behind. 

“I’ll just unload the cart then,” Dean said loudly to an audience of none. They duly ignored him so Dean huffed away to his labour, muttering about ungrateful brothers and discourteous dandies.

Dean played at labouring for some minutes, taking the flagons into an eerily empty kitchen. There were not many people about given the size of the estate and Dean wondered how such a huge mansion was kept so pristine and glorious with so few servants. His blazing imagination immediately conjured up haunted estates, mysterious ghouls and a stoney faced villain with vivid blue eyes. A shudder ran up Dean’s spine despite the sunny morning and the cheery garden he stood in. Sam looked like he wasn’t going to budge from the incessant dialogue he was carrying on with Mr Milton anytime soon. What those two could be discussing was beyond even Dean’s wildest imaginings. Sam was a bookish man at heart, with an interest in the most outlandish studies of astronomy, science and medicine. He really was wasted in the Church as a preacher, despite his articulateness and beautiful handwriting, thought Dean. Sam was no true believer, he was a natural investigator. If Sam had been born a woman, Dean might have expected the lavishing of attentions upon him by Mr Milton. After all, on Mary’s side, Dean’s family was somewhat noble (a pirate grandmother notwithstanding) and the Winchester-Campbell name had some sway in the county. They were not wealthy but they were gentry, despite Mary’s disdain for the honour. The Miltons, no relation to more austere bearers of the surname, were new money, they were, in short, ‘mercantile’. Which word, for the snobbish, was worse than ‘murder’.

Dean considered Gabriel Milton as he wandered about the rose gardens. He was an ordinary kind of man. Good looking, to an extent. Though Dean was not vain, he knew that his whole family had good looks. Gabriel had charming manners and he was certainly lavishing attention upon Sam. Perhaps they were discussing the libraries of the world or the philosophies of the ancient Greeks. Some esoteric topic that Dean was disinterested in but which Sam found endlessly fascinating. What could one man want from another outside the drunken sweet air of The Medusa’s Head Dean could not fathom. It one thing for Dean to understand Captain Lafitte’s lonesome overtures for friendship when he was ashore and quite another to contextualise it in relation to his brother Sam. 

“It must be Latin translations of obscure Arthurian legends,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Or algebra. They are talking of Mathematics, by troth!” 

Whatever learned conversation was taking place, Dean felt like an intruder. So he wandered further out into the lush landscape of the grounds. Hitherfield Hall was north facing and particularly sunny. Somehow the hugely expansive lawn was kept long and green despite the heat of summer. Perhaps the invisible servants watered the grass, speculated Dean. The same genie like herd also ensured the welfare of the peacocks on the lawn, the fawn herd that could be glimpsed in the far off ornamental trees and kept the waterlilies blooming in the many manmade lakes. There were specimen plants everywhere of exotic shapes and strange foliage. The flowers smelt intoxicating and ripe tropical fruits hung from the bowers that Dean could have foresworn belonged in other climes and other countries. Strange fish could be glimpsed swimming in the ponds, all red and white and golden. Their backs mammoth and bejewelled with painted scales each the size of Dean’s thumbnail. Their noble heads whiskered like dragons and bulging wise eyes shone with seemingly sentient intelligence. 

The splash of something darkly winged drew Dean’s eye in the distance. His heart began to thump in his chest as Dean broke into sprint towards the strange sight. The sunlight glared over the crystal wavering water, the ripples distorting and reflecting like a boiling witches cauldron, till finally the lake surface levelled out into a calm mirror. In its dark depth, green and blue with seagrass, Dean saw his own astounded face, flushed cheeks and parted pink lips. There was a blackened mess in the deeps. Turning and twisting and churning without causing a single ripple on the surface. Glossy ropes and tendrils, flashes of pearlescent flesh, incomprehensible monstrosity, beautiful in its awesomeness. 

The water surface broke and a skull emerged. A symmetrical face, olive in complexion, the whites of the eyes startling, the dark hair capped around the ears, the muscled neck flexing. Castiel swam, seemingly unseeing, towards Dean, his head tucked down, his arms swirling and his legs kicking hard. 

Dean took a step back, then two, as Castiel swam ashore and slunk his way up the silty banks. Dean could not breathe at the sight of him. 

He was dressed but it was worse than if he was naked. The long white shirt which under ordinary circumstances would have been opaque and covered him to mid thigh was now transparent and clung shamelessly to his muscled body. The fabric twisting at Castiel’s narrow hips, riding up to expose a rounded pert ass and leaving nothing to the imagination at the groin. Dean had seen Renaissance painting like that once, when he sailed with Benny Lafitte on a brief excursion to Ports Mouth and had the opportunity to visit a gallery. The reality of Castiel was more stunning than any purported masterpiece. Dean stared dry mouthed and speechless. 

Castiel’s eyes seemed like two milky pearls in his head until he blinked at Dean and they changed back to blue sapphires. It was like what the sea captain had told Dean of sharks, how they had protective sheaths of cartilage to shelter their eyes during attacks. Dean tore his eyes from Castiel’s very human looking body and tried to stare him back in the eyes, but those eyes, even when blue were an unearthly sight. 

“Mr Winchester,” Castiel said in a voice hoarse with exercise. “You are here. I was just thinking of you during my morning invigilations.” 

Dean gasped. “You were?” 

“I was bathing and I thought of you.” 

“You bathe in the lake?” Dean asked. 

“The bathtub in the house is too small, I’m afraid,” Castiel said speaking as if they were familiar friends. “I prefer to be outside anyway, the water feels more alive, the sun warms me up better too.”

Perhaps Castiel was a leviathan like Sam had joked, Dean wondered. Or a madman. An attractive one. What Castiel said next convinced Dean he was right in the latter thought. 

“Are you here for the mating?” Castiel asked. 

Dean choked on a sudden overflow of saliva in his mouth. “I am here to deliver the cider.” 

“Perhaps the morning is inopportune for human matings?” Castiel answered bashfully. “I am afraid I have not made enough studies of the topic to be an expert, a lack of knowledge I promise I will do all in my power to remedy. Dean, I am very very pleased to see you nonetheless, even if you are not feeling particularly gravid.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I ... no.” 

“But I thought I saw arousal when I emerged from the lake,” Castiel looked down at Dean with intent then looked down the length of his own body. “But perhaps you find my appearances unsatisfactory.” 

“Now wait a minute,” Dean gulped. “No one said anything like that. That’d be a lie.” 

“I am satisfactory?” Castiel echoed the sentiment dubiously. “But I have not had the opportunity to satisfy you yet. I assure you, if such an opportunity is given, you would know it has happened. It would be physiologically unforgettable.” 

“Is that a reassurance, a boast, or a forewarning?” Dean said with some alarm. “Or all three?” 

Castiel shifted on his gleaming, perfect, long and tanned legs. His hips cocked to the side in a movement so graceful and lust inducing that Dean felt momentarily dizzy. 

“I gotta sit down,” Dean wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his forearm. “Been working real hard, so hard, gotta take a rest.” 

“You do appear overheated,” Castiel came forward, he paused a little hopefully. “Is it a temporal shift due to sexual readiness or the sun?” 

“The sun,” Dean stuttered, trying not to look into the dark wet mysteries at Castiel’s crotch, so thinly veiled by the wet shirt tails. “The damned sun.” 

Castiel nodded with tiny wince of disappointment. “Take all the time you need Dean, I hear humans can be slow to arouse.” 

“Just, stop talking about sex for a minute, buddy,” Dean said plaintively. 

“Of course, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Castiel said. “Your comfort is of the utmost importance to me. Here, this should help.”

To Deans utter horror, Castiel lifted his shirt, peeled it off his magnificent frame and wrung the water out over Dean’s head. The flood of pond water over Dean’s hair and down the collar of his shirt both startled and angered him, but rather than a curse (or worse yet, a punch) Dean heard himself give a faint moan. Castiel was completely naked and within arm’s reach. Dean thrust his hands deep into his own pockets, came precariously close to groping his own awakened member, pulled them out abruptly and seized himself by the wrists. 

“Are you feeling less feverish?” Castiel touched the cool wet cloth to Dean’s forehead. 

Dean closed his eyes and groaned. 

“Are my ministrations affective?” Castiel queried, touching long warm fingers to Dean’s temple, pressing soothingly into the tensed brows. 

Dean tipped his head backward, falling half prone on the ground like some heroine in thrall on the cover of a Gothic adventure. Castiel climbed half way over him, pushing the wet shirt over Dean’s face, rubbing the scent of moss and musk over Dean’s nostrils and open mouth, wiping down his neck and exposed collarbone. Castiel’s fingers nimbly loosened Dean’s necktie and was quickly unbuttoning Dean’s shirt when Sam’s voice called out from a distance. 

Dean came back to himself with a start. He realised how they must look, Castiel naked, himself becoming so, laying on the ground in a swoon. Dean scrambled to his feet, his hands pushing on Castiel’s firm abdomen to create a decent gap between them. It was difficult to pull his palms away from exploring the ridges and dips of flesh there but Dean grabbed a firm hold of himself and exercised his will. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Castiel tilted his head, his eyes wide and curious. 

“People don’t just get naked,” Dean stammered. “And climb on top of each other.” 

“Some of my data suggested that is precisely what happens ...” Castiel said hesitatingly. “Although, I concede, often courting precedes. Is that what you want Dean? To be courted before you are worshipped?” 

“Worshipped?” Dean laughed nervously. “And courted? You are interested in making overtures towards me?” 

Castiel nodded gravely, his eyes burning hot blue like the summer sky. “Most sincerely.” 

“I thought ... we are not exactly from the same world,” Dean pointedly. 

“Certainly.” 

“And our genders ...” Dean muttered. “If you believe in such things.” 

“I believe it is of no import,” Castiel replied. “I am utterly indifferent in that respect.” 

Dean swallowed, quite moved by Castiel’s declaration. 

“Well then, we, uh, we hardly know each other.” 

“I feel very drawn to you, as if there is a bond forming between us already, a profound one,” Castiel said, staring at Dean unblinking. “I am not accustomed to such feelings.” 

“Well,” Dean shrugged. “That’s flattering. I might have thought of you once or twice last night.” 

Castiel smiled and it was small shy sort of smile. He looked suddenly rather sweet. 

“We haven’t even spoken to each other in society, nor danced,” Dean murmured demurely. “Not that I usually care about such things but a formal introduction is more fitting with propriety.” 

Even as he said the words, Dean was internally berating himself. He ought to take Castiel up on his offer of ‘mating’, Dean was not terribly experienced in matters of flesh but he was widely read and extremely imaginative. Though he had not found anyone to be particularly interested in around the local town and villages, Castiel set his cares free. Why was he insisting on formalities when here the intriguing creature stood before him, Dean questioned himself. 

It was almost as if Dean wanted something more than a warm embrace, more than sensuality even. 

It was as if he wanted to know Castiel. 

“Then we shall dance at the ball,” said the intriguing creature.


	3. Chapter 3

It was all happening so fast. Dean studied his own reflection in the mirror, a little unconvinced. That Lord Novak was interested in him was clear and plain as day. That he was fascinated by Castiel was undeniable. Their somewhat disparate social status notwithstanding there was nothing in the way of Dean and Castiel striking up a friendship and perhaps, if Dean was honest about the agitation in the pit of his stomach, something more. Mary had never once, in all the years, despite Dean being the eldest, pressured him to enter into a relationship. Mary had known better. She was also permissive when it came to Dean's closeness with Benny Lafitte, allowing him to sail away on short sojourns with the ship Captain. If there was ever any gossip, Mary defended Dean passionately, proclaiming that no child of hers would be fettered at home when there was adventures to be had. Dean was in all ways fortunate when it came to his family, however eccentric. 

What Dean saw in the mirror was a handsome young man, who looked well proportioned and if he was being truthful the epitome of beauty. The dark red coat he was trying on flattered his milky complexion, making his green eyes glow like emeralds. It was a little tighter in the chest since last season but Dean decided to leave it unadjusted. He had seen the greedy manner in which Castiel had stared at his torso, following the lean lines down to the nip of his waist. The trousers Dean wore cut off below the knees and he had stockings, not silk but clean and fresh enough to cover his calves for the ball. New dancing slippers of leather were readily laid out by the window beside his supple but humble work boots. The dress shirt was washed and laying flat to dry on the mantle of the small fire in his bedroom. Dean pulled out a decorative handkerchief he had made over the long dreary months of winter and carefully folded it. He left his room, passed Sam's door, turned away from the stairs to Mary's master bedroom and walked down towards the basement. It was a spacious but darkened room, right next door to the wine cellar, where upon he knocked and was granted entry by his adoptive brother Adam. 

"I thought you might want this for adornment tomorrow," Dean offered the slip of silk to Adam. 

There was some sounds of scurrying in the darkness, then the young man’s angular faced emerged from the shadows, pale blue eyes flashing with delight. 

"Thank you," said Adam, his seldom used voice soft and raspy. 

Dean smiled and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Would you like to come up and sit with us in the drawing room tomorrow, I can fix up any garments you want repaired for the ball."

"No, thank you," Adam smiled furtively. 

"I could close the curtains so that the light is not so harsh for your eyes," Dean offered. "And we could drink tea, perhaps go outside even in the dusk." 

Adam shook his head. "Too hot." 

Dean shrugged understandingly. Adam had always been adverse to going outside or being in the sun. He preferred to live in the darkened basement even as a child. Mary had never questioned it, saying that Adam merely had sensitive sight and a constitution that was not suited to exposure to the elements. Adam was not averse to the cold and on the very dark winter days, once or twice a year, went to the Moors to do who knows what. Exceedingly private and unwilling to interact with anyone outside of immediate family, Adam only ever communicated with Mary, Dean and Sam. His strange temperament was never an obstacle to familial feelings however. Dean remembered playing hide and seek with the foundling in the darkness of the wine cellar as children. The bright harp like sound of Adam's juvenile laughter when Dean growled and picked him up and tickled him whenever he was inevitably caught. Sam taught Adam reading and writing which he was very skilled at. Dean showed Adam more practical applications such as the repairing of clothes, the fashioning of tools, the making of traps for hunting. Adam’s passion was art, the drawing of intricate parts and machinery and architecture. Where Dean was fanciful and imaginative, Adam was precise and detailed. Paradoxically, in the dark of night, Adam was far more fearless. He was known to wander the farm, guarding the herds and chasing away wolves. Though all that he did in his own quiet manner, the only sign of his work the skins of pelt he left on the back doorsteps for Dean to cure and sell in town. In his own quietly industrious manner, Adam contributed to the income of the household. The only thing that would ever entice Adam out from his subterranean dwellings was the smell of Mary's cooking. He sometimes bundled himself up in furs and shadowed Mary in the dusk, watching her stir the cook pot over the fire with hungry eyes. His lean face rapt as she threw in too many onions or managed to both char and undercook the meat at once, filling up the house with unappetising smells that made Adam drool and push his head over the cauldron to inhale the smoke. Mary always said that only Adam truly appreciated her culinary skills and it was only his fawning admiration for it that kept her visiting the kitchens when Dean was a far better chef. If anything, Dean and Sam dreaded the day Adam might find an occupation (for a vocation was something of a necessity for the youngest of a less affluent household), fearing that Mary would be lonely without Adam's company. Whereas she raised her own sons to be independent, Adam was always babied and indulged a little more than Sam and Dean. Mary's pity for the abandoned baby she found on the Moors making her uncharacteristically fastidious towards him. 

There was no coaxing Adam to leave his dank quarters that evening, as was the case every evening. So Dean stayed a while in the cold and wet room to teach Adam the dance steps for the ball. He was a quick study and could see very well in the darkness and never tripped over the tree roots rising out of the heavy clay ground. He thanked Dean again before it was time to go to bed. 

"Brother," Adam said, touching his hand to Dean's elbow. 

The tiny gesture made Dean's chest glow warm. Adam did not like touching almost as much as he loathed speaking. Dean looked into the expressive eyes of the youth and smiled, bidding him to have sweet dreams. 

Dean wrote in his journal that evening of Castiel's strange dialogue. He described the monstrous thing he saw in the depths of the pond, questioning what it had been. Shadows from the clouds in the sky? Swamp weeds? He wrote about leaving the bottle of sweet wine in Castiel's care when Sam had to rush back home. He described the delight in Castiel's eyes when he promised to dance with Dean at the ball. He spent so many words trying to capture the shade of blue of Castiel's irises that he ended up laying in an exhausted heap, staring at the flickering lone candle till he fell fitfully asleep. 

Sometime during the night, the clouds gathered heavily in the sky and the sound of pouring rain stirred Dean awake. There was a flash of lightning in the window and tapping on the glass. Three polite knocks that made the hair stand up on the back of Dean's neck, his sleepy heart beating erratically in his throat. The face in the rippled glass was still as a mask. 

"How are you even here?" Dean exclaimed, pushing open the window. 

Castiel stared at Dean with wide eyes, rivulets of rain sleuthing over his brows and down his cheeks like tears, but he was smiling, white teethed and cheerful. Castiel was holding on to the eaves with a hand and a foot, somehow finding purchase on the smooth cottage wall. There was no ladder in sight. He clung on like a spider, or some tentacled marine life barnacled to a ship's hull. 

"I could not sleep," Castiel said. "I brought this!" 

The bottle proffered in his hand was a familiar one. 

"The window is too small for you to fit through," Dean said though Castiel was looking at the panes with a calculating eye. "I'll come down, meet me at the back." 

Dean tiptoed down the stairs, careful to stay quiet so as to avoid waking up the rest of the household. He crept through the kitchen and opened the back door onto the garden. Castiel was standing there huddled in a coat, somewhat loose and misshapen. 

"You are soaked," Dean exclaimed. "Come with me, I know somewhere you can dry off." 

They ran through the muddy field in the dark and Dean was panting by the time they reached the hay barn. 

"In here, quick," Dean gasped, pushing open the door. 

It was lovely and dry inside, the floor covered with straw, bales insulating the walls and Dean had a blanket and candle stubs in here for when he wanted to be alone to write. He chose not to make light so that no one in the house could spot their presence. Castiel allowed Dean to pull off his coat, which was a barley colour and felt thin and light in Dean's hands. What purpose such fashions could serve Dean failed to fathom. It must be a London thing. 

"I stayed up all night consuming data," Castiel said quickly. "And when I realised what the wine meant, I had to come and see you." 

"What do you think it means?" Dean laughed. "You came here in the storm? In these conditions, on the old country road? You could have lamed your horse." 

"I had transportation," Castiel said blithely. "And it means invitation." 

Dean lifted his eyebrows. 

"The wine is an invitation for inebriation," Castiel said with the sort of excitement that might have signalled the finding of treasure island. "The sharing of a beverage containing alcohol is a pretext for the relaxation of interpersonal boundaries. If we are intoxicated, we could touch and perhaps ... kiss." 

Dean watched Castiel flutter his eyelashes in a becoming fluster. 

"I thought of kissing you, Dean, and I could not wait another second to see you again," Castiel said. "The insertion of my sensory organ into your orifice is a surprisingly titillating prospect!" 

Dean sat down on a bale and let out an incredulous laugh. "What happened to asking me to dance?" 

"That's tomorrow night, this is tonight." 

"More like this morning, if you stay any longer." 

"Am I welcome here?" Castiel asked, his gaze suddenly uncertain. 

"I came out with you didn't I? Left my warm bed to humour your lunacy though the moon is behind the clouds. Are you a werewolf or a vampire? Skulking in the wilderness, leading the innocent astray?" 

Castiel looked surprised at Dean's assertions. "I am no supernatural being." 

Dean burst into a chuckle. "I was teasing, Cas." 

The informal address brought a smile to Castiel's face. Dean wondered if anyone else had ever called him that before. Most nobility Dean had ever met insisted on titles, were appalled by the use of first names and certainly did not permit nicknames. Except Charlie of course. 

"And I am no innocent," Dean said, closing the space between them. "I could tell you about my secret papers in which I have written tales far from suitable for publication. I commit them to memory and have to burn the scripts in the fire in my bedroom, lest they fall into the wrong hands." 

Castiel looked entranced. "What tales are those?" 

"Imaginings of fornication," Dean said with a sly wink. "Vivid, outlandish, incredible stories of sex in the forests, magical creatures entangled in hedonistic delights. Mysterious fellows bundling me off to distant locales, waylaying me on the high roads, meeting me in barns..." 

Castiel drew in a sharp breath, his eyes roaming their surrounds. "This is a building for the storage of feed. We are inside a barn Dean."

"Precisely," Dean leered. "Now come closer and I will tell you what happens next." 

A sucking wet sound slithered through the air. Castiel blushed suddenly. 

"Did you hear that?" 

Wordlessly Castiel nodded, the roses in his cheeks glowing in the darkness. 

"What is it?" Dean looked around. "Is there a snake slithering in the straws?" 

Castiel shifted from foot to foot. "Please do not be afraid. I will protect you from all forces, human or not. The sound you heard merely signify my excitement." 

Dean could have sworn in the corner of his eyes, he saw masses writhing in the shadows, darker than dark. 

"I need a drink, to steady my nerves," Dean said. "I have not snuck out to stow away with a stranger before." 

Castiel seemed to remember the bottle of wine, he uncorked it and Dean could hear wet sloshing as the bottle was pressed against his lips. The liquid poured sweet and heady into his mouth. Dean gulped thirstily.

"Your turn, Cas," Dean murmured after a few long satisfying sucks. 

The lord trembled at the sound of the affectionate name and drank deeply and nervously. 

"Did you finish the whole thing?" Dean asked. 

"Was I not supposed to?" Castiel apologised. "I am afraid I have a very strong metabolism and I need a lot of alcohol for any chemical effect to be noticeable." 

"I wanted another taste," Dean said belligerently. 

"Oh?" Castiel asked, his bottom lip gave a slight tremble. 

Dean composed himself, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to Castiel and inhaled deeply. The scent was rich and sugary, the taste of the wine on Castiel's tongue was salty and buttery, nothing like the acidity of fruit. Dean sucked on Castiel's tongue as it overfilled his mouth. It felt as big and tactile as it had looked, pushing wantonly against Dean's palate. 

The kissed lasted an obscenely long time, Dean could feel Castiel's hands pulling apart the seams of his clothes, rubbing down the inside of his legs, sweeping over his chest, sliding over the bareness of his ass beneath his breeches. How could that be, how did it feel like Castiel had a dozen hands, all rubbing and gliding over Dean's most sensitive areas. The pressure in his groin was almost unbearable, Dean felt the tightness growing in his balls, the overwhelming desire for release. A flash of lightning struck the barn, making sparks fly from the ironwork. Castiel's eyes were desperate and glowing in the instant of illumination and Dean saw a huge looming mass of darkness fanning out behind his back like wings with moving tendrils. Then they were plunged into darkness again and nectar suddenly filled Dean's mouth. His cock throbbed as he ejaculated into a cup of milking muscles that might have been fingers or palms or mouth or something else. Dean's eyes rolled back into his head as bliss melted his limbs and took away his breath, dissipating body and soul into inky blackness. 

* * * 

The birds were chirping loudly in the apple tree outside Dean's bedroom window. The leaves looked glossy and vibrant green. The fruits hung juicy red weighing down the branches. Dean stirred in his bed, his sheets tangled up between his legs, knotting around his spent cock, riddled with semen. He watched the sunny morning light pouring into his room. His journal lay open on his desk by the shuttered window, with a sketch of a man with shadow wings on his back. 

Dean sighed, it had been the most vivid of dreams. The marks between his thighs were pink like love bites, but perhaps he had scratched himself during his wet dream. Though the ground looked like it had been soaked overnight and the whole garden was gleaming after the rain, Dean was sure Lord Castiel Novak had never climbed up to his window. 

He did find an empty wine bottle in the hay barn when he superstitiously checked it later that day, but that could have been left there on another occasion. There were no signs of any coat or foot prints, though had there been some the rain would have washed it away. His muddy boots by the backdoor were probably let there from the day before. The whole idea of a night of passion with Castiel in the storm was incredulous but Dean knew he would be blushing all night long that evening at the ball.


	4. Chapter 4

All day the whole household was in disarray, with the entire family running around the cottage in a frenzy of getting ready for the ball. Mary had to be coaxed into her finest dress and Dean fussed over the decorative silk flowers on her bonnet, threatening his mother with a trim if she refused to have her tresses intricately woven by Adam. The latter ascended to the sit-in kitchen as soon as the sun began to set, wearing a surprisingly clean and pressed black suit that looked to have been spun from the finest silk. Though Dean had no idea where Adam had acquired such fine materials. While Dean knew Adam spent most of his time inside during the day, working in the darkness of his cellar, it was still shocking to see the fine needle work Adam had made of his own outfit. It could have been crafted by the finest tailor in London. Dean was, as always, winded by the glimpses of genius his shy adoptive brother showed. Sam was handsomely decked out in his acolytes dress robes, the sombre garb of black and white somehow looked the height of fashion on Sam's impressive frame. The strip of gold applied over his broad shoulders in difference to the status of the occasion looked elegant rather than gaudy and the snowy square at his throat brightened his complexion.

As for Dean, he spent an hour glaring into the mirror, trying to choose a shirt that Castiel might like. His hazy dream of the evening before was twisting and turning in his head, there were sensorial memories as if he had really been there but other details were so vague as to make him question his sense of reality. There was a very odd feeling of dejavu as he climbed onto the coach Lady Bradbury sent along to pick up Dean and his family for the ball. As the sun set and he and Charlie sat bundled up in fur coats at the helm, watching the sweat stem off the horses' backs Dean felt a pull in the pit of his stomach that he could not ascribe purely to excitement. Dean's eyes drank in the violet and orange sunset, there was so much red on the horizon, ruby stained clouds piled over the rising moon. The dark shadows of the forest trees reached for the spinning wheels. Dean turned to check up on his family via the front window and all he could see was Adam peering at him with wide grey eyes full of blood coloured sky. 

Charlie’s coach was pulled by eight stallions, which Dean had warned her was way too much power for the relatively small vehicle to handle. Yet, she had designed the carriage herself with reinforced marine grade wood and was trying out the freshly welded wheel clasps she was patenting under an assumed name. 

“Must you test your racing carriage on my family?” Dean asked, holding on to the handles by the side of his seat as Charlie picked up the pace.

“I would never risk Mary and Adam. Though Sam tried to convince me he is a better mathematician, so for that impudence I do want to get his pulse up a little,” Charlie winked at Dean. Her design was perfect, the coach juddered over the rough roads. 

“That Tristan is going to causing problems,” Dean pointed to the grey horse nearest to them. “He’s trying to take on Alexander in the lead. He’ll throw us off keel.” 

“I knew I should’ve given him his head,” Charlie muttered darkly. “But the stable master complained that two stallions attached to a Lady’s carriage trying to mate on a public road would cause a scandal. I told him its midsummer and if both are willing, and pull their weight, who are we to judge nature?”

Dean laughed and held on tighter but the horses behaved themselves and all seemed to go to plan, with their party due to arrive earlier than all the other guests until a tree fell in front of them right onto the middle of the road. Alexander the stallion in the lead neighed a warning and Tristan bumped his nose into the other horse beside him, the whole carriage veered smoothly around the obstruction. Charlie whooped in triumph, praising the ‘intelligent brutes’ loudly but then the whole carriage faltered, the wheels struggling in the muddy side bank, bogged. 

“I hope it is a highwayman,” Charlie said with delight, leaping off the driver’s seat to check the wheels, not batting an eye when mud splattered up to cover her daffodil yellow silk dress. “Or highway-woman rather.” 

“Did you see how that tree came to be on the road,” Dean asked her. “It looked as if a sapling flung from the forest at great force.” 

“It’s a young oak, far too big to be used as a throwing stone,” Charlie eyed the fallen foliage. “It would take a Titan, or a catapult. Hmm, I must design one of those next week, they sound fun.” 

“Focus Charlie,” Dean urged. “Indeed the tree is young, look at the roots. They are extensive and broken as if pulled off. Why would a tree in its prime fall onto the road?”

“It rained last night, the ground was loose, and hence the mud we find ourselves knee deep in.” 

Dean pulled a face, his dance slippers were ruined. Unconvinced by the strange occurrences, Dean looked warily around. There were movements in the forests, that familiar slithering sound he had heard in his dream. Dean stood still, his muscles tensing and a small surge of desire curling inside him inexplicably. He saw a trampled violet, crushed and bruised petals sinking into the muck. 

He waited. Nothing happened. 

“Give me a hand Dean,” Charlie produced a crowbar, an elegant design no doubt of her own modelling that had an elongated and fluid grace to it. It looked like a tendril of fern. Or the digits of an octopus. 

They laboured together, squelching mud and oak leaves flying, until the carriage was pulled out with a triumphant huff from the stallions. Tristan used his weight to keep the other horses from bolting forward, waiting patiently until Alexander in the front stamped his hooves in readiness for Charlie’s orders. Dean was glad to be seated outside of the carriage, he was in a filthy state and did not want to ruin the interiors. Charlie threw her head back and laughed when she saw his mud splattered face. She drove the rest of the way, carefree, her dress disgraced and they all arrived very late. 

It was full dark when they reached Hitherfield Hall, the pebbled paths lit by towering torches burning bright with well-fed flames. To Dean’s utter surprise there were two men waiting at the door. The shorter one was Gabriel in a fine gold filigreed jacket, he proffered his arm for Mary and led her inside. Chatting amiably to Sam. Adam followed on their heels. Charlie said something about looking for a room to get changed in, she at least had the foresight to bring spare clothes it seemed, her adventurous spirit necessitating the keeping of spare garments in the trunk of her coach. It was the other man at the door who had all of Dean’s attention and admittedly admiration. Castiel was wearing yet another black suit, the glossy velvet cut beautifully to enhance the proportions of his wide shoulders and sparse frame. He stood staring at Dean with vivid blue eyes, but his gaze was broken when Adam walked past. Dean watched in surprise as Castiel’s nostrils flared and he followed Adam inside to the ball without a word of greeting for Dean. 

Dean wondered for a second if perhaps Castiel had failed to recognise him, with his mud freckled face and muck encrusted clothes. He could not even go side, fearing to tread foot prints onto the plush scarlet carpet laid out in the entrance. Ever ready to make the best of things, Dean walked around the building and stood at the glass door of the dining hall, looking in. He saw Gabriel seating Mary on his own table, pouring out wine for her and Sam on either side of him. Castiel pulled out a chair for Adam, then sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at Dean’s youngest brother intently. 

Dean hung his head. He knew he was not the most attractive of his siblings. Sam was so much taller and witty and learned. Adam had a strange unearthly sort of beauty with his glimmering eyes and pale skin. Castiel had seen Dean in the garden when he came calling upon Mary with Gabriel, but he had not met Adam then. Perhaps Castiel was taken with Adam, judging by the way he was reaching out a hand to touch Adam’s wrist. An outrageously familiar gesture for strange gentlemen who had just met. Dean watched with his heart in his throat as Adam suddenly looked up, his hand seized in Castiel’s. Adam had a frightful temper and a terror of strangers, Dean had been surprised that he had been so composed in the crowded dining hall, he was ever more shocked when instead of a sharp word or a hissing rejection or even a scream, Adam showed Castiel all of his gleaming white teeth, the smile stretching over his shapely jaw from ear to ear. 

“I don’t like to mix business with pleasure, but you are a pleasure to behold,” said a voice too close to Dean’s ear. 

Dean turned and frowned at the swarthy gentleman in a dining suit, swirling brandy in a crystal glass. 

“You may call me Mr Ketch,” he said to Dean, proffering the glass. “Would you like a sip? Your masters won’t find out.” 

Dean blinked at the obnoxiously winking man and looked down at his own clothes. His fine red velvet jacket looked more brown now. His stockings were caked in mossy mud. Dean had relied on the fine tailoring of his outfit to set a note of elegance, so he did not have any laces or ornaments or jewels on his person. This man Ketch must have mistaken him for a stablehand. 

“If you meet me in the rose garden after midnight, I’ll bring you a whole bottle,” the man said with an oily smile. “I have business to execute before then, but I’ll be worked up and ready for company after.” 

Carpets be damned and Castiel’s wandering eye be damned too. This foolish gross fellow be damned most of all. Dean pushed open the glass door and entered the dining room. Castiel looked up at his entrance and Dean tried to glare his displeasure at him, but Charlie’s smiling face interrupted Dean’s attempt to psychically rebuff Castiel. 

“All worked according to plan,” Charlie grinned and twirled. “I have only trousers in my trunk, if anyone asks.” 

She was dressed as a noble young man, her hair hidden under a dashing cap. “Time to meet the eligible young ladies.” 

“You’ll scandalise them,” Dean said. 

“Oh no, I have already had three compliments for my rouge from the ladies of Angelfell,” Charlie smiled coyly. “And one enquiry for my tailor.” 

“Go then, have fun.” 

“Not without dancing with my best friend first,” Charlie said. “I see you looking at Lord Novak and he is looking back too. Let’s tread some mud onto his fine parquetry for the lack of manners he has shown you.” 

Dean protested that he did not have any reason to shun Castiel. 

“So first name basis,” Charlie twinkled at him. “On the contrary, Lord Novak is already at fault. For not ushering you in to the seat beside him. For taking all his time with Adam while the best man is forlorn. Your face hides nothing when you look in his direction, Dean. It is a little adorable. So when did it happen? Did you sneak off with him in the apple orchard? Has there been a meeting by the sea dock? When did you and Lord Novak come to know each other so ... intimately?”

“Who said we know each other at all?” Dean stammered. 

“Your eyes say it and your blushing cheeks, dish Dean,” Charlie urged as they flittered past each other on the dance floor. “Tell me about your heavenly dish.” 

Dean snorted. “Nothing to tell, I delivered some cider to him, we had some wine together and that is all.” 

“Hmm,” Charlie made a disagreeing noise. “I’ve seen Tristan look at Alexander the way you look at Castiel Novak. I would have betted on you two being better acquainted.” 

“There was ... a dream,” Dean cleared his throat. “And no it is not suitable for sharing in conversation at a ball before you ask!” 

“Oh I will press you in private then, this Sunday, after Sam’s sermon. I will press you hard for every detail, perhaps the way Castiel pressed you in your dream,” Charlie giggled. “I mean you do tell good stories, I like the naughty ones the best though I do wish you had more ladies in them.”

“I wrote that one about the fairy for you,” Dean’s cheeks heated as he recalled the very specific things Charlie had required him to insert into the tale. 

“I would be your patron Dean,” Charlie promised him. “Like the attractive Lord W to Shakespeare, or Queen Elizabeth the virginal to her troop of merry men, if you would but write me a chronicle of fairy tales for the discerning ladies of our age.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You are incorrigible and you are merely trying to distract me. Go make merry, Charlie. Just because I am disappointed in Lord Novak, Lady Bradbury need not suffer my melancholy company. I will drink Lord Castiel’s wine and watch him flirt with my half-brother, I will eat his meat and feast on his fruit and wish Adam and him well.” 

“A noble sibling,” Charlie sighed. “I admire your selflessness, get real drunk for me okay?” 

Dean gave her a cheerful smile that didn’t quite reach his own eyes. “It’s a ball, of course I will and I shall eat until I explode.” 

He tried to reassure her by moving to the table laid out with a feast for the senses. Dean piled venison and mushrooms and nuts onto his plate. There were so many exotic foods presented that he could not quite name everything on his plate. Dean was so absorbed in tasting and trying everything but it was only when there was a loud slurping sound across the ice sculpture that he looked up and made eye contact with the aloof Lord Novak, sucking on an oyster. 

“Oh,” Dean said, putting down a pigeon leg. “It’s you.” 

Castiel blinked at him, tilting his head. “Dean?” 

“Oh you do remember me, then,” Dean said a little rudely, he had already had some Torquay. 

“I do,” Castiel paused. “You do too?” 

Dean put his plate down on the table with dignified fury. He walked out onto the veranda overlooking the formal gardens, the ponds gleamed with torchlight all over the grounds, the gardenia hedges were in full bloom. The door made a tell-tale sound as it opened. Dean could hear the footfalls of a man. 

“Mr Ketch, if you want your nose unbroken tonight, you will leave me be!” Dean exclaimed. 

“I am Castiel,” came the soft reply. “But you know that already.” 

Dean spun on his heels to see Castiel holding the two silver plates of food, his own and the one left behind by Dean. 

“Will you feed with me?” Castiel asked tentatively. “I think we need to talk.”


	5. Chapter 5

"Come with me to the water's edge," Castiel implored and dumbly Dean followed, though he made sure to scowl but perhaps Castiel could not get the impact of his ire in the darkness. 

The pond Castiel chose was glimmering with moonlight, the clouds pulling apart momentarily to cast silver over what Dean could only term a beauteous face. Castiel was all dominant brows and bright eyes, his mouth parted around a crab claw, tongue darting in and out of the shell. He had no table manners to speak of and disposed of his food quickly. Dean crossed his arms and frowned at his plate in a fit of roiling displeasure. 

"Is the food not to your liking?" Castiel asked. "I could get you anything you want."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I like chestnuts, roasted with cinnamon." 

Castiel titled his head. "What else do you like?" 

"Snow chilled wine and African violets. Orange poppy seed cake. Spring lamb with asparagus. Damascus roses mixed in with the thorny mermaid bush from Scotland. A blueberry bushel loaded with fruit." 

Dean knew he was being silly naming all the items out of season. "So go ahead, produce all of that."

Castiel did not even bat an eyelid, he looked around and then said "Look behind the gardenias." 

Dean peered over his side and there sitting nestled in a golden plate was everything he had described. The lamb was still warm and the bottle of wine covered in snowflakes. Castiel picked up the bouquet of violets and handed them to Dean, their fragrance intoxicating. 

Dean stared at the red and white roses, pinched a blueberry from the branch, it burst sweet and tart over his tongue. 

"You are a sorcerer, a magician or I am dreaming again," Dean said, his hands shaking as he held the bouquet. 

"Please eat the food," Castiel said. "It would be a great honour to nourish one as precious as you. And while you eat tell me about your dream." 

"Don't you know, weren't you there?" Dean asked all confused. 

"Dean, I cannot look into your head and see your dreams like an angel of visitation," Castiel added softly. "At least not without sticking something into your skull." 

Dean shuddered, shoving mouthfuls of the incongruous yet delicious meal down. 

"You came to see me, with a bottle of wine that I had left behind and we went to the barn and ... well," Dean blushed. "I thought I saw wings and serpents."

"Serpents?" Castiel raised his eyebrows. 

"Or something serpentine, I can't recall what happened exactly, only the ecstasy of it," Dean gulped. 

"Did you ..." Castiel looked down at his lap. "Did you become afeared?" 

Dean blinked at Castiel in surprise. "Was I afraid?"

"When you saw those parts," Castiel was biting his bottom lip. "Did they appear monstrous?" 

"I was excited," Dean said, stammering over his words. "I was not afraid, I was ... I wanted. Oh Cas it was better than anything I had ever imagined and my imagination is wild." 

"Oh," was all that Castiel said, his eyes taking on a drunken glaze of satisfaction at the lively smile on Dean's face. "I would like to hear more of the details." 

"There were these long tactile things, they wrapped and twisted and cajoled," Dean sighed. "I can't recall what they were exactly but they rose from the base of those magnificent wings. You looked as if a Greek god of love."

Dean paused when Castiel reached forward and inserted his thumb into Dean's palm. The elegant digit wriggling a little ticklishly in Dean's grasp. 

"Did it feel like this?" Castiel asked. 

Dean looked away, the words stuck in his throat. He coughed and in a whisper confided "Like a very long penis." 

Castiel's hand withdrew with a spasm as if electrified. "Oh." He said, it was not a very meaningful response. 

"Like you had many many penises that were sinewy and powerful and extremely busy." 

Castiel bit his index finger. 

"And slimy too but more oily than sticky and they were everywhere," Dean panted. "It was monstrously pleasurable." 

The silver platter clattered to the ground, tipping over from Castiel's lap. Dean could see the man hunching over, his hands covering his lower half. 

"If it wasn't a dream, Cas, I wanna see them again, I wanna feel them," Dean said in a messy moan. "Please Cas. I've been thinking about it all day, I don't know why you are acting so strange, apart from your usual strangeness. I can handle it, I can take it, just show me." 

Castiel was looking at Dean with burning eyes now, the blue of ghoul fire. "I don't have tentacles Dean. Not yet. Not ready." 

Dean furrowed his brows. "So you want me to think it was a dream?" 

"It wasn't a dream, unless you can dream forwards. It was a premonition of sorts. It is difficult to explain," Castiel said urgently. "I promised you explanations and yet here you are urging me to do the impossible, tempting me." 

"I tempt you?" Dean asked indignant. "You are the one showing me a whole new world of pleasure in a barn. Was that not you? Was it some phantom wearing your face." 

"It wasn't me, it will be me," Castiel said plaintive. "It is an entanglement, a knot of desire, a self-fulfilling prophecy, prophetic fallacy." 

"What?" That seemed the only apt response. "Are you making fun of me Cas? Are you messing with my head?" 

"No, I am precisely, despite myself, not messing with your head as you put it," Castiel looked at Dean askance. "If anything, I am powerless against you. How can that be? Are you human Dean? Did you ever get lost on the Moors as a child? Have you been tampered with?" 

"Tell me how you did that trick then," Dean changed tact, pointing at the gold platter with unseasonal offerings. "If you will disavow of our night of passion, I'll at least expect you to tell me how you preempted my requests."

"That's just a parlour trick," Castiel sighed. "It isn't hard to do." 

Dean stared at Castiel unrelentingly. 

"In your dream, I had wings," Castiel said. "I showed them to you?" 

"You know what you did in my dream," Dean said belligerent. "You more than showed me your wings, I sunk myself to the hilt in those soft feathers." 

Castiel shuddered from head to toe. 

"Say I do not know," Castiel said with a longing in his voice that sounded convincing even to Dean's skeptical ears. "I have command of faculties that you cannot see or comprehend. I can use my wings, invisible, immaterial to your senses, to travel through time." 

That was not exactly the answer Dean had expected. "Beg your pardon?"

"I can use my wings to move forwards or backwards in time, at a whim. Though I cannot manifest them to you. And the other organs that you describe so vividly, I am not in possession of them yet." 

"Yet?" 

"They sound like secondary sex organs that manifest for mating once a compatible subject is found. I am surprised but delighted to hear your account of them. I can only speculate that the man you enjoyed coitus with in the barn was me but me from the future." 

Dean was silent then he looked at Castiel, threw his head back and laughed breathlessly into the darkening sky. 

"I coulda believed in tentacle monsters," Dean wheezed through his giggles. "Or angels even. But a traveller through time? And future penises? Really?" 

Castiel looked like his pride had been hurt. "Organisms are complex, unearthly travellers more so, I am evolving very well through my mature forms considering my age. I would say I am advanced even." 

"Your age?" 

"I am 99 centuries old," Castiel proclaimed. "Give or plus a few solar years if we are counting by your sun." 

"Again, what?!" Dean exclaimed. 

"I am a creature from the stars," Castiel pointed up at the starless night. "Here to study your kind and hopefully discover the secret to repopulating my species." 

"Whoa," Dean batted his eyelashes. "Did ... did Charlie put you up to all of this? Are you an actor from the theatres of London? This is the height of imagination, even for her, well done Lady Bradbury and what is your stage name?"

Castiel closed his eyes and held his breath. He exhaled after a minute in which nothing extraordinary happened. 

"Were you trying to do something just then?" Dean asked. 

"I was trying to make my wings go up," Castiel looked over his own shoulders theatrically. "Can you see them Dean?" 

"Oh yes, certainly, they are so big and impressive," Dean stood up dusting off his rump. "What a pantomime." 

Castiel closed his eyes again, his face a mask of concentration. "Any tentacles?" He opened one eye hopefully. 

Dean tossed the bouquet of violets in Castiel's face, the flowers shattering and dangling from the man's messy hair. 

"Foolish clowning," Dean said. "Can't believe I thought you were real." 

He stomped away back towards the house. There was no music emitting from the grand ballroom much to Dean's surprise. Perhaps it was time for the desserts? The glass doors were wide open and the brightly lit rooms glitzy and golden even from a distance. The quiet made Dean feel uneasy. As he ascended the steps back onto the veranda he heard a piercing screech and that familiar slithering, more frantic and sloshy than before. 

With cold dread, Dean ascended the steps, biting his lips to keep quiet. His lungs were heavy with the urge to call out for his family and Charlie, his neighbours and the host Gabriel but foresight kept him silent. Dean tiptoed up to the entrance and peered from behind a marble statue of Mercury. 

The guests were in disarray. Flopped over dining tables and laying in heaps on the floor. There was violence as far as the eye can see. A figure lurched out of the glass doorway, one hand extended. 

"Adam," Mr Ketch gurgled, fell forward and lay dead, a hole gouged through his back by something round shaped. 

The tableau Dean saw inside the ballroom was more horrific than the death of a single man. The innocents with blood dripping from their ears and noses and eyes. Several of the waiters had died with exotic weapons in hand, ornate blades and modified pistols. Gabriel and Sam came down from the stairs, their faces horrified. 

"Mum, Charlie," Dean managed to say. 

A black suited body stirred in a corner and was overthrown by the petite shape beneath it. 

"I'm here," Charlie climbed to her feet, still holding a steak knife in her small alabaster hand. "He almost smothered me when I went for his arterial points. He shouldn't have been such a bully with his friends." 

Dean saw a shadow on the floor, he leapt forward and pulled up a stained table cloth. 

Mary was beneath it, Adam had her by the throat, his fingers clawing at her neck. Dean grabbed the steak knife from Charlie and was poised to strike when Mary hissed through her teeth a single syllable. 

"No!" 

Then Dean could see it, the fine purplish tentacle wound around Mary's windpipe which Adam was desperately trying to pry off. 

"Give me the knife!" He called out and Dean thrust it forward. Adam seized it by the handle, gritted his teeth and slashed at the tentacle, whimpering as it lay twitching and severed on the ground. 

After a moment, Adam stood up on shaky legs, staggering towards Dean. The bloodied knife was in his blood covered hands. His winter grey eyes looked around at the carnage. 

"I couldn't stop it," Adam sobbed. "I doomed them all."

Dean was running out of the ballroom at speed even as Sam stepped forward to grasp Adam, Charlie and Gabriel stepping up to help Mary. Dean didn't have time to listen to their yelling of his name. He had no time but he also had all the time in the world. 

Castiel was still walking up the hill towards the house, he hadn't seen what Dean had seen. He will never see that. 

"You have to prevent it, you said you can travel back and forth in time. Go back, go back now!" Dean screamed. "Go back and unmake it."

It was as if he knew, as if Castiel could see all Dean had seen in his wild eyes. "Is it very bad?" 

Dean nodded. "Please, Cas." 

Castiel suddenly wrapped his arms around Dean in a hug that was familiar and strange at once. 

"Of course," he said. 

There may have been a kiss before Castiel flew away through time on his invisible wings, but Dean didn't remember it. 

He woke to a bright sunny morning, his journal laying on his desk before the open windowsill was blank. The world outside glistened clean and lively after the rain. Dean's red velvet jacket was hung on the post at the foot of his bed, freshly adorned with golden violets embroidered on the sleeves. He had experienced a violent and strange day dream the evening before that had inspired the design, though he couldn't quite recall what he had dreamt about. When Dean went to breakfast, he walked past the snow white pages of the journal. He usually left it on the last page of his writing, but perhaps there had been a breeze while he was asleep that flipped the pages forward. Dean ran his fingers down the empty vellum, peering at the absence of ink. 

Funny how it felt like there ought to be drawings and writings there. He thought of an image of a gentleman in black mounted on a black horse from the back. Or a lightning struck barn in a storm. Dean looked at the papers, they remained stubbornly untouched. 

Sam was eating his second bowl of porridge, sprinkling on walnuts and stirring in apples sauce to sweeten the gruel. Mary came into the house with the carcass of the fighting rooster she had culled. The sight of its mangled feathers turned Dean's stomach a little. Adam was still asleep in the basement. 

"Bobby passed earlier, he collected the mail for us in Angelfell," Mary said to Sam and Dean, plucking away at the chicken in the sink. "There's a fine looking envelope from Hitherfield Hall." 

Sam grabbed the correspondence first, tearing through the expensive wrapping. 

"It's an invitation," he said between mouthfuls. "For a ball courtesy of a Mr Gabriel Milton of London and a Lord Castiel Krushnic Nautilus Novak of Tempestly." 

"What a strange name," Mary laughed. "He doesn't sound like he's from around here at all." 

"Never heard of him," Dean sat down and poured a glass of milk from the jug. "Probably some bored aristocrat of haughty origins, of little interest to the likes of us." 

The Winchester-Campbells all murmured in happy agreement. 

"Still, it would be good for Adam to attend. He has not been shown to society yet," Mary said. "And he is one-and-twenty already."

It was quickly agreed that Dean would inform his friend Lady Bradbury of his family's intention to attend and they could all go to the ball together. 

It was most unfortunate then that Lady Bradbury's carriage sunk into a muddy sinkhole, after a tree fell into the road, and pursuant to which her stallions Alexander and Tristan began copulating so wildly that the reins broke and the horses all bolted. So it was a long dark dreadful trek back to their cottage on foot. Though the evening ended with fresh chicken soup in their homely kitchen, Mary and Charlie giggling over draughts of cider and Dean never ended up meeting Lord Castiel Novak at all. It seemed an inconsequential loss, though Dean stared at his journal forlorn for a while before bed. Frowning as if he had forgotten something important.


	6. Chapter 6

In an attempt to numb the disappointment of missing the ball at Hitherfield Hall, Dean was able to tempt Sam and even Adam with a trip to the docks at Angelfell. In consideration for Adam's sensitive constitution and his hatred of the sunlight, they wrapped him up in dark capes and hats and finally even a black scarf which he wrapped around his face like a veil, only his pale eyes peeking through. He looked a little strange but Angelfell was a large township with sailors coming through all the time and Dean thought Adam looked rather more dashing than threatening with his slim build and birdlike grace. The three of them walked side by side, drawing admiring glances and friendly nods from their acquaintances. Dean knew rather more sailors than was decent but that always made a trip into town more fun. They were always coming up to greet him, showing him new tattoos and telling him wild tales, beseeching him to be done with his errands at the soonest so they can meet in The Medusa's Head. Sam on the other hand was more drawn to the bookshops than the socialising, spending hours in there browsing and debating with Mr Davies the proprietor (who insisted on the informality of being called ‘Nick’ and never made Sam’s prolonged stays in the shop feel unwelcome). Adam had accompanied Dean and Sam on these trips when he was younger, though in his adolescent years his habits had grown more desolate and his visits to town were increasingly limited, dwindling into a rare Christmas shopping event every second or third year. 

On this occasion however, as an adult, he braved the bustling streets, keeping to the shadows, timid but not hoofing away for the desolate sea-cliffs as Dean had feared he might. After spending twenty minutes in the book shop (where Mick Davies quietly asked Dean if he had any more of his more titillating transcripts to sell for the backroom shelves) Dean decided to head down to the fabrics and haberdashery emporium, leaving Sam to loiter in the book store and attempt to inhale all the new stock in a matter of half an hour. Adam followed diligently at Dean's heels, he liked to look at threads and needles and crafted bizarre but interesting projects in his basement. Mrs Tran and her son Kevin were there, taking Dean through all the latest wares, letting Adam touch all the silks with his eyes closed, his lips moving in silent dialogue with himself. 

Dean was surprised when the bell on the door rang and a burley man in military uniform ducked inside. He made as if to look at the fabric but his eyes were almost instantly glued to Adam. Dean pushed himself in front of his brother. Adam was bristling at the sight of the stranger, his face a whiter shade of pale. 

"Are you looking for something solider?" Dean asked as if he owned the shop, Kevin ducked his head behind Dean. 

"Uh, my collar needs mending," said the man, craning his neck to keep his eyes on Adam. 

Dean glowered. "You can buy red thread and plain needles over there."

"But I want to look at the um silks," the man said, he had an officious air about him that Dean found grating. "Am I not allowed to browse the wares?" 

"You can look at the fabrics," Dean said. "But you understand the young gentlemen here are not advertised?" 

The man looked at Dean with dismay but then his face crinkled up in a toothy smile. "My name is Arthur Ketch, forgive my military manners. I simply wanted to admire the wonderful offerings in this shop." 

"Admire from afar Mr Ketch," Dean said cordially. 

"Perhaps you are country gentleman and you object to my common state," Ketch said. "I am representative of skilled men who sacrifice all for the safety of others, you are prejudiced Mr ..." 

"Winchester, Dean Winchester," Dean's manner softened. He didn’t know Mr Ketch at all and judging others on gut feelings seemed callous. “Pardon my brusqueness. My brother and I are farmers more than gentry and your attention upon us is a little overbearing.”

"My apologies then,” Ketch’s lips quirked into a confident smile, so he didn’t look very regretful at all as he gave a courtly bow. “I am a recruiter for a special branch of the army, you and your brother look like fine able fellows. Why do you idle amidst feminine playthings when you should both be serving as men of the barracks." 

Dean gave Ketch a sideways glance. "There is no sex in the fabrics, my genitals have little to do with them. So no Mr Ketch, I will play with whatever materials I like. And as for sex of the other kind, I imagine undergarments might be got out of silk even for a man and the result would be plenty pleasant."

Dean could see the flaring interest colouring Ketch’s face and the jut of his chin as he swallowed. “What special branch of the army do you work for?” 

“We are the Men of Letters,” Ketch said as Mick over at the counter clattered his teacup to the ground. 

“Oh, clumsy me,” he said, ushering the customers out. “Broken glass everywhere, I cannot risk the health of my patrons, please allow me to shut my store for cleaning.” 

That left the three of them standing in front of the window display, Ketch’s red coat drawing plenty of attention. Dean was about to ask Ketch more about the Men of Letters when a broad hand clasped his shoulder and pulled him into a hot chest, a long beard tickling Dean’s forehead as he was embraced warmly. 

“I leave for a month and you are accosting with soldiers on the street,” Captain Benny Lafitte said teasingly, his eyes wrinkled up into crescent moons of happiness. “Dean, you are more handsome than I remember and Adam has put on at least another three inches.” 

“And you are a honey tongued sea rogue,” Dean patted Benny’s back. “This Mr Ketch is trying to entice us into the army, you caught us being recruited.” 

“You’re not joining the landblubbers, I will press gang you to my ship before that!” Benny said with a melodramatic frown. “Adam can be our lookout, he is such a good climber.” 

“And what of me? What would my position be on your boat?” Dean fluttered his eyelashes. 

“Captain’s boy,” Benny said without hesitation. 

“I am hardly eight and twenty,” Dean laughed. “And I am sure the title is ‘cabin boy’ Captain. The role is to attend to the needs of the cabin, not the captain.” 

“I’d have you attend to me, you rascal, darn my socks, iron my shirts, cook my meals,” Benny guffawed. “Lose at cards and let me triumph in all the dart games. Then I’d have you sing me to sleep with that siren voice. You can sing the mermaids out of the water. We’d be able to sail farther with good morale buoyed by your talents.” 

Ketch's eyebrows lifted. 

"Depravity," he shook his head. “Might as well throw yourself into the ocean, better than throwing your lot in with pirates.”

“Private pioneers,” Benny gave Ketch a long scanning look. “I have papers to prove my legality.” 

“Now gentlemen, why not settle this dispute and convince us why we should listen to either of you in the pub,” Dean tried to make peace. 

Ketch opened his mouth to argue but the sound of hooves approaching close called Dean’s attention away from the two men. One he trusted, the other he was testing. The two horses coming along the road were stunning, the white one groomed beautifully with gold threaded bridles and the other jet black and foul tempered. Den stared with wide eyes as the black horse with its rider came to a stamping halt next to them, the stallion huffing and straining against the reins, pointing his nose towards Dean. Without thinking, Dean stepped forward and placed his palm on the muzzle, the horse licked his hand and stilled. 

“Impala,” the rider grumbled and dismounted, tugging the horse towards the road to no avail. 

“That’s a funny name for a horse,” Dean said. 

The man shrugged and slowly looked up at Dean, his eyes were a dazzling blue and Dean froze instantly at the sight of his face. He extremely handsome, beautiful really, but his face was a revelation beyond physicality. Dean could feel a riotous stirring in his stomach, slivering down even lower as he took in the pink mouth and unblinking scowl. 

“Funny because an impala is a type of mountain goat,” Dean stuttered, his eloquence and spunk leaving him with a sigh as he was glared at. There was something in the gaze that was more despondent than angry though and Dean found himself drawn to it. What happened to this man to make his eyes that deep with feeling?

“My horse is not confused,” the man said, giving a formal half bow. “Good day Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes widened even more. How did this man know his name when Dean didn’t know his? That seemed unfair. 

“What is your name?” Dean called out. 

The man hesitated. “Cas,” he said, his frown deepening. “Castiel.”

Dean was taken aback by the familiarity of the address. “I don’t know a Cas.” 

“No, you don’t know me,” came the prompt answer, those eyes a little more glistening than before. 

“Then I guess introductions are in order,” said Castil friend with a weary smile. “I am Gabriel Milton and this is Castiel Novak, many middle names, kind of a lord.” 

“Oh, the invitation to the ball we missed, that was from you,” Dean said, he should be relieved that he recalled their connection, though as he looked Castiel that summation felt a little shallow in his heart. 

Did he know this man in some other way, in another time, or perhaps even another life? Why else would he feel the sudden urge to test the pliancy of that mouth so rigidly shaped by the clenched jaws?

“There will not be another,” Castiel said, glaring from Dean to Ketch and then to Benny. 

For a second Dean had the fanciful notion that Castiel did not want him to spend time with either Ketch or Benny. Which seemed outrageous. 

“Another ball,” Gabriel said. “He means there will not be another ball, seeing as our time in this county is limited...”

“We are going to London tomorrow,” Castiel said. “Then to Tempestly, my estate.”

“Does our country manners not impress?” Dean said with a haughty air. “Lord Novak.” 

“Cas,” the odd lord corrected. 

“I don’t call anyone but my intimate friends by pet names,” Dean was losing his temper now. “Are you such a friend to me?” 

The glower that Castiel gave him sent a tingle down Dean’s spine. He took three steps closer till they were nose to nose, Castiel’s hat casting shadow over Dean’s face. 

“We are not friends, we do not know each other, nor will we,” Castiel said. “Our paths diverge and you are safe from my influence.” 

“I choose the road I walk on,” Dean gestured to the street. “I am my own person and you will not tell me what is safe.” 

“I will tell you like a prophet that there is no profit in anything to do with Arthur Ketch,” Castiel said. “He is not to be trusted.” 

“I am to trust you then?” Dean narrowed his eyes. 

Castiel shook his head vehemently, his eyes sliding over to Adam. “Trust not your own family, but least of all me.” 

With that threatening parting note, Castiel remounted the rebellious horse and took off at a gallop that stirred the dust on the road, Gabriel rolling his eyes and following in pursuit. 

“He’s a queer one,” Ketch said with malice. “Keep an eye on that man. Probably not even a man.” 

Dean would have asked Ketch for clarification but Sam came barrelling down the road, having seen Benny. There was another round of hugs and greetings and Ketch slunk away down the street without a goodbye. Dean felt more at ease in his absence. They went to The Medusa’s Head and drank. It was near sunset by the time the three brothers bid Benny goodnight, extracting promises from him that he would visit their cottage before going off to sea again. 

As the setting sun coloured the clouds vermillion, Adam quietly confessed that he would like to see Lord Novak again. 

“I cannot keep my eyes from him,” Adam said in a low voice. “I cannot look away.” 

“Who can,” Dean shrugged. “For a nobleman he is very intriguing.” 

“I do not think I am intrigued in the manner that you are, Dean,” Adam clarified. “You look at him like you want to gobble him up.” 

Dean snorted a laugh, hiding his blush behind his hands. 

“And what do you think about with respect to Lord Novak, Adam?” Sam asked with a smile. 

“I think about him gobbling me up, with his teeth, spitting out my head, sucking down my ooze, eating all my legs,” Adam said in a faraway voice. “Devouring me like the very devil of the deep blue sea.” 

Dean and Sam looked at each other appalled. 

“I had a nightmare last night and now I think it was a warning,” Adam said. “I dreamt of a ball, the one we missed, I dreamt that we had attended somehow. Everyone was drinking and feasting and dancing. Then that Mr Ketch came and he had me in his arms, a sword to my neck. I screamed this infernal scream and then everyone except our family and closest friends were laying on the floor dead. These tentacles came out of me, like worms, black soft baby worms too long and too tactile and sensorial. They were reaching for our mother, clinging to her neck like frightened babes but they were choking her too in their panic. The pain of cutting them off, the severing like slicing off my own fingers. And you screaming Castiel’s name. Over and over.” 

Adam was trembling, almost falling down as he relayed the dream. Dean could see a feverish light in his eyes and a sheen of sweat over his brows. That was how Adam got when the moods took him to a darker place that his family could not reach. Dean hurried over and grabbed Adam by the elbow. 

“We must get you home to bed,” Dean said. “It has been a long day with too many new faces.” 

Adam nodded and complied. They rushed home and Adam was tucked in after a slice of chicken and vegetable pie. 

“They are not new,” Adam whispered as he closed his eyes, Dean tucking the blankets under his chin, Mary blowing out the candles. “Draw them, you’ll see.” 

With a cold feeling on his back, Dean went to his room and opened his journal. As soon as his pen touched the page, the outline of a broad cheekbones and shapely jaw emerged. Dean drew the eyes last, they peered from the page like jewels that had been carved out of inert rocks. Dean stared down at the face of Castiel, it was as if he had known that face well.


	7. Chapter 7

It was utterly impossible to sleep, once Castiel's face came staring out from the page. Dean's pencil sketched of their own accord, moving rapidly, filling up the white blanks with dark shading and vivid shapes. Then he picked up his fountain pen and began to write in the margins, between the illustrations of wild imaginings, the words came spilling out - a strange tale of a creature who could fly through time and who had kissed and done more with Dean inside a barn. The sky was fishbelly white by the time Dean's journal was filled. For some strange reason he wanted to say it was once-again filled. Though he was weary, Dean felt feverish for action. Presently, he threw on his coat and walking boots and headed off leaving behind nothing but a hasty note on the kitchen table, the journal tucked close to his chest and kept safe. 

The birds were twittering and the landscape slowly saturating with summer colour as the early morning mists cleared. There was a scenic and easier path to Hitherfield Hall via the county road but Dean chose to cut through the Moors for a faster journey, remembering what Castiel had said about setting off for London. The high road to the city was via the Moors and Dean could waylay him there to answer his burning questions. By mid-morning Dean could see the distant hillsides of the great hall's land holdings on the horizon. While he was looking up, wiping the sweat from his brows, a horse came out of the cornfields at speed and almost collided with him. Dean darted aside but it was too late, the rider overcompensated and the mount threw his head up in the air and tumbled. 

"Assbutt!" Came the loud curse. 

Dean ran up to help the man thrown off the horse, he was both surprised and pleased when he realised who it was. Lord Castiel Novak was sitting on his noble behind, frowning up at Dean from a pile of crushed cornstalks. The horse climbed back to her feet and wandered off looking for the sweetest ears of corn to devour. 

"I'm going to tune you up good and proper," Castiel said darkly to the horse, who ignored him. 

Dean smirked. "Just the man I was looking for. Tell me, why do I have such vivid ideas about you, as if I know you?" 

Castiel shook his head. "We're not doing this, again." 

There was some attempt to climb up but Castiel cursed liberally when he stumbled as he stood, hopping on one foot. 

"I've injured myself," he stated, looking down on his foot, he couldn't put pressure on it, it was presumably sprained. "Help me to my horse." 

Dean crossed his arms. 

Castiel sighed and softened his tone. "I do not mean to be rude. Please." 

This time Dean went forward and without much ado, wound Castiel's arm around his shoulder and then bore his weight. 

"Call your horse," Dean said, grunting under the burden of Castiel's bulk. 

Castiel whistled, in response Impala sprinted away, deeper into the cornfield. 

"I'll upgrade your core," Castiel muttered sinisterly under his breath. "Obey damnit." 

"If you always curse and huff at your horse, of course she won't come to you," Dean rolled his eyes, he made a clicking sound and spoke in soft gushing tones. "What a beauty you are, come to your fallen master, he is in need of your aid. I know he is rather brusque, but think of all the good times you have had with him ..." 

Here Dean was stuck for ideas. "The um many country rides, the sweet apples he must have fed you..." 

Castiel blinked rapidly. "I did fuel her with Martian ore once, I think she liked it." 

"Uh, yes, what he said," Dean continued to talk and sure enough Impala came pushing through the corn, whinnying as she pranced, brushed her head against his hand and darted away again. 

"There is nothing for it, you will need to be my support," Castiel sighed. "If you can bare my weight." 

"I can and more," Dean said with a sharp smile. 

Castiel did not seem in a mood to talk as the two of them slowly walked back towards Hitherfield Hall, the imperious horse following in the far distance, always running away when Castiel tried to catch her, leading him to grunt in increasing frustration. After some half a mile of silence, Dean stopped in the middle of the road. 

"I will not move another step if you don't speak to me Castiel," Dean said. "I am tired of feeling confounded, the strange familiarity and your intentional distance. You might as well be a star on the far horizon, though you are here leaning into me." 

"My body is familiar with yours, our corporeal forms have their own innate synchronicity," Castiel said begrudgingly. "Temporally we are separate."

"Oh yes, that clarifies things," Dean huffed and shook his head when Castiel nudged him to keep going. "If you talk, I will keep walking." 

"I am not the Castiel you have forgotten," was all Dean managed to coax out. 

That made Dean wonder. Something flashed in his minds eyes, Adam's account of him screaming. He had a vivid notion of yelling at Castiel to change things, to change time. How was that even possible? Yet it did not sound as ridiculous as it should. Dean looked at the handsome man shading him from the rising morning sun, limping as he stared determinedly ahead. 

To Castiel's seeming relief, Impala finally tired of her games and returned to his side. Her flanks steaming with exertion as she trembled with fading excitement at her moments of freedom. She stilled beside Castiel and flicked her tail at his back, almost as if to make amends for her rebellion. He whispered into her ear, his stern face gentling into something more pretty than severe. Finally, she let him climb back in the saddle. Dean expected Castiel to ride away then, but he looked down at Dean, hesitated, then extended a hand. Dean let himself be pulled into the saddle, sitting close and askance in front of Castiel. The view from Impala's back was somehow higher than he expected and when the horse began to run Dean knew immediately something extraordinary was happening. The roads flew beneath her hooves and they swooped towards the grand manor as if flying. The cornfields disappeared in a blink and a cart heading for town whizzed past them oblivious. It was like riding one of the pegasus, the winged horses of the ancient gods, within moments they were at the stately gates of Hitherfield Hall. Dean's heart still in his throat from the speed he had endured. 

"I hope you were not scared..." Castiel began to say. 

"I wanna," Dean stammered, his hands trembling. "I wanna do that again!" 

The lord and the horse snorted in bemusement and the gates opened of their own accord. 

"I read a fairy tale like this once," Dean said as Castiel cantered all the way up to the front door. "Beauty and the Beast." 

"You are hardly beastly," Castiel said. "Though your forms takes a little getting used to, it is aesthetically pleasing enough." 

Dean laughed as the ornate front door flung open smoothly. 

"I am making some adjustments to the life support for my comforts, do not be alarmed." 

That was all Castiel said when Dean began floating gently into the air the moment he stepped foot past the threshhold. Dean said nothing as the two of them bounced and floated through the entrance, past the reception room, via the portrait gallery and finally came to a stop in the library. A fire roared into life in the grate, the candles lit themselves, the books glowed on the shelves. Castiel dropped into a deep blue armchair, a stool drifting over to elevate his feet. He let out a sigh of relief, then the magic stopped and Dean came crashing down onto the arm of Castiel's chair in an inelegant sprawl into the lord's lap. 

Castiel cursed to the invisible spirits that served his whims. "Don't be a smartass." 

A second armchair came scooting up and Dean climbed into that with flushed cheeks. 

"Please excuse the Host, overzealous artificial intelligence thinks it can preempt my every need and has no concept of subtly," Castiel said. "Make the tea, please." 

A silver trolley shot through the doors and came laden with tea and cakes. 

"There are several human flavours that won't kill you," Castiel gestured towards the triple tiered cake stand. "Just don't touch the stuff on the bottom." 

Dean squinted at something that recoiled indignantly on a silver platter. 

"Sure thing," Dean said and much to his own credit, his hands did not shake when he served himself a cup of Earl Grey with a dash of what he hoped was milk. 

Castiel looked at Dean with intelligent eyes, sipping on his own cup calmly. 

"You want me to take a look at the foot?" Dean offered after they had both put down their morning tea. When Castiel did nothing to stop him, Dean leaned forward and loosened the shoelaces on Castiel's riding boot. When the ankle was exposed it did looked swollen, the skin had turned a vivid glowing shade of rose gold. Where Dean's fingers felt the flesh gingerly, the muscles rippled and dimpled as if he was touching a jellyfish. 

"I was going to suggest strapping it, but uh, you're not um, that is ..." Dean gave up his search for the right words. 

"Indeed, I am not," Castiel rested his chin in his palm thoughtfully. "Your fingers feel good though." 

Dean bit his bottom lip. Then with a reckless laugh he darted forward and traced his fingers all along the wounded ankle, the golden glimmer swelling up like waves to follow the heat of his hands. Dean ran his hand experimentally up Castiel's calf, where the flesh looked more ordinary. Then the leg twitched and Castiel made a soft exclamation. 

"That tickles," he said. "Dean, stop that." 

"It feels so normal, like a man's calf," Dean wondered out loud. "But you are clearly not ..." 

Castiel's hips jerked in the armchair, his hands grasped the arms firmly, fingers digging into the velvet like claws. "Dean!" 

Something purplish and flushed pink shot out from the leg of Castiel's rolled up trouser leg and wrapped firmly around Dean's wrist. Castiel's eyes were wide with shock. Dean touched the sticky nub of the tip with his free hand. Then he grasped the moving tentacle by the head between thumb and forefinger, applying gentle pressure. A viscous fluid dripped from the fleshy tip, though Dean could see no seminal opening or veins upon it. Castiel writhed in the armchair, his face flushed red and his hair a matted black smear against the headrest. A second tentacle came trailing out, flicking as if to scent the air, this one was emerald green with golden nubs all along the underside. 

"That's a sensory scout," Castiel gasped. "Dean, please go back to your seat before the reproductive organs are awakened." 

"They are different colours," Dean gushed. "So many pretty colours." 

Castiel grunted and pulled his trouser leg down abruptly, shoving the tentacles back under the cover of cloth with clumsy pushes, hissing as he pried the tendril from Dean's wrist. Dean had to be gently nudged back into his seat, his eyes glued to Castiel's naked foot. 

"Focus Dean," Castiel said when he had finally managed to put himself away. "Don't you have questions?" 

Dean came back to his senses, looking Castiel in the eyes. "You are too marvellous!" 

"I am a horrible alien from the stars," Castiel said. "As you have seen." 

"You are fascinating," Dean corrected him. "So everything you've shown me here, it is not sorcery? Is it something scientific?" 

"Science fantasy," Castiel explained. "It is technology so seamlessly integrated that it translates our fancies into reality. The house, the gardens, they are interfaces and they respond to the ideas in the minds that interact with it." 

Dean nodded. "So I see a great manor and magical tea trolley because that is the context I live in?" 

"You see more than any other I have encountered," Castiel said with real passion in his voice. "You are thrice exceptional. You must have the most extraordinary mind." 

"For a human?" Dean asked. 

"Are you?" Castiel repeated. 

"I think so," Dean said, looking down at himself. "Tell me, when you had sex with me in the barn, for surely that account of it in my journals was not a dream. Did I feel human to you?"

Castiel laughed now, his face losing its solemnity. "You are more preoccupied with coitus than I am and I am an expert in it." 

"I think you did feel particularly expert," Dean said, taking out the journal from his jacket lining. "So I must appeal to your professional knowledge, tell me about this." 

Castiel looked at the page that was opened for him. At the drawing of him mounted on Impala. Then the sketch of the barn in the thunderstorm. 

"I thought you would ask me about the rest," Castiel looked taken aback. 

Now it was Dean's turn to be surprised. "The rest?"

"All of it," Castiel said and flicked the pages back, all the way back to the cover. "And the other volumes you have filled." 

"That is the only journal I have kept this year," Dean looked at Castiel with wide eyes. 

"That you remember," Castiel said. "I have known you, well not personally, for a very long time. Or a very brief time. Or forever, depends on your perspective." 

Dean felt a ripple of something overcome him, full of awe, dread and longing all at once. He stood up slowly, bypassing Castiel in the armchair. Walking towards the bookshelves, Dean felt the blood rush towards his head. The library had an elevated ceiling, was storeys tall with a great void that hung over the room. The bookshelves were brass and built all long the oval walls. There were countless volumes upon the endless rows, ladders that ascended high and descended low. The books had different coloured spines in various hues of spring, autumn and summer. Some were ashen like winter snow, others black as night, some glittering and others of metallic sheen. Some books were rustic, others beautifully crafted like his own leather bound journal, yet others in strange modern looking spines of unknown materials. Some didn't look like books at all, but rather recepticles for recording. He took one book out and opened the front page, this one was paper and suede bound. The front page read "D. Winchester 2004": 

Today I met a real dick of an angel ... 

Dean slammed the book closed and pulled out another. 

"Journal of Dean Winchester 1704":

He said he's a researcher for a breeding program ... for aliens!

"Dean's Diary 1924":

The pilot's craft it seemed could escape the earth's gravitational field. He is not the Harvard Professor he professed to be but a journeyman of the stars.

Dean did not need to open a fourth book. 

"They appear of their own accord, a side effect of the temporal nexus," Castiel said by way of explanation. "I'm afraid one day there will be so many the engine will overload and we'll probably end up with a temporal rupture on our hands." 

"And what would happen then?" Dean asked. 

"A few universes might disappear, or never come into being," Castiel said wearily. "We won't miss them because we won't realise its happened." 

"That's terrible, we have to stop that," Dean said. "Fix the temporal nexus." 

Castiel looked at Dean with an unfathomable expression. "Never." 

Dean blinked in sudden understanding. "Oh." 

Castiel twisted in his armchair and pulled out the grey volume sitting at his elbow on a small side table. He stroked his fingers over the silver filigree on the cover. 

"The temporal nexus is a person," Dean said with certainty. "And that person is me." 

Castiel nodded. "Was you." 

He let Dean take the book from his hands and Dean read it. It was long story, written in first person. After he finished it, Dean looked at Castiel. The sun had not shifted in the sky, it was still mid morning, but Dean knew he had been reading for hours. Time was meaningless in this place. 

"I don't remember any of this," Dean said. "It isn't familiar to me at all." 

To Dean's shock, Castiel bowed his head forward, put his face in his hands and wept.


	8. The Ghost Of Deanna Winchester

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman of thirty, unwed and unengaged, without a title nor lands, had no prospects of love. I was thirty-one years old and walking upon the Moors when the winter dawn burst into flames. I was alone as I had my writing basket with me, tucked beneath some ladylike sewing that have long served as camouflage for my novels. The pages caught fire, the ashes scattering, I ran for the meteor and found within its crater a pearl the size of an egg. When I touched it, it sent lightning up my arm, leaving a scorch mark on my shoulder. It looked like a hand print, a little bigger than mine own, like the devil's touch. The egg, I suppose, grew before my eyes and presently it shattered and from it came a man. He did not look demonic and I was a woman of sense and sensible enough to wait to heart his words before I judged his intentions. He was naked as the first man from Eden and like his body his face was angelic perfection. 

He called himself Castiel and asked me for the name of our solar system, becoming agitated when I referred to the sun without coordinates and was altogether as primitive in his manner as his lack of attire suggested. I told him to put on some clothes and then speak to me. He asked if I was feeling shy. Boldly, I explained that I felt enticed by his nudity, to which he raised eloquent eyebrows, clicked his fingers and adorned himself with a flattering lilac lace dress and a bonnet trimmed in golden silk such as the one I saw in a London catalogue only the day before. From that I ascertained that he was reading my mind and also that he had a figure lithe enough to look pretty in bias cut gowns. Seeing my bemused pleasure at his clothing, he twirled and bowed and explained that his skyship had malfunctioned, but it was only a matter of time before it will be repaired. For he was a genius even for his own in-genius race. There was some urgency however, as his people were on the brink of extinction and only mating with an alien species could save them. It sounded like the worst novel I had ever conceived. 

I wrote romances in my spare time that were mocking tales of my society than tawdry page turners. As for Castiel's tale, I could not imagine broaching the topic to any publisher, for how outlandish this reality than any fiction. 

"I will see you again soon, in my exploration of your society, I hope you would think of me as a friend," he said politely, dipping his bonnet with a pink cheeked smile. "When we meet again." 

Like a prophet, his words proved true. He had turned himself into a Lord of some kind very quickly, probably tampering with minds and forging documents and making his strange and fascinating way through the world. He had an estate up in the Lakes District called Tempestly and had taken up abode in Hitherfield Hall. Both of these places, he later professed to me, were but manifestations of his skyship and its docking station. Neither were truely as they appeared to our human eyes, hiding in plain sight using signals of our brains and reflecting back to us what we expected to see. 

All this my friend Castiel divulged to me when he came to my bedroom at night. Climbing the walls with spider-like finesse, coming through my windows and sitting and talking with me beside the small fire in my room. All Winter he came, every night and he spoke of his travels and his dire mission which he had all but given up hope for until his accidental landing. What I did not understand despite all the exciting stories he told me of the worlds he had traverse, the visions he had seen that was almost too grand to comprehend even for a writer's imagination, was the fact that he was certainly lingering. 

With the breaking of Spring, Castiel visited me during the day as well as the night. Seeking formal attendance via my father John Winchester. In the daylight hours we had but an hour or two in public where we could do little more than sit at a distance, look, blush and talk nonsense about the weather and the coming harvest. It was torture for me, to refrain my curiosity, to not ask about Mathematics and Chemistry and Physics and sit and smile. He took it rather more well, infinitely patient, he would do my embroidery, or stare at my hair, or read foreign poetry in tongues that I suspect came from farther away than even the Far East. At night, he told me he enjoyed my company during the day, even with the house watching us, even if we weren't allowed to even hold hands. He said he was basking and meditating in our time together, thinking upon what would please me, dwelling in my head, surprisingly awed by my imagination. I began to want more in the evenings. I was curious about his body, which he said was still evolving after the initial sequestering of genetic coding from me. I had given him his form, he said, when I touched his stemcell. 

"But we are genetically diverse, I used an algorithm to randomise the characteristics, we are hardly related to each other except we are both, a little, Homo Sapien."

I took it from those words that I was no longer quite human. The mark he left on my shoulder was a gift of a sort, an antibody that would protect my flesh from diseases, prolong my life into old age, I might remain sprightly and well into my nineties. I jested that he ought to have granted me immortality while he was at it but his face became sombre. 

"I do not age and I do not wither," he said with a touch of grief in his tone. "I walk through time alone, impervious to change. I would not burden you with my destiny." 

I could understand the horror of life everlasting, like a flower frozen in the ice, collapsing to ooze on the inside, preserved and untouched outwardly. I had life burning in my veins and my alien friend set my imagination a fire. I wrote stories of him, the proud Lord Castiel Novak, the outsider that falls in love with a country woman of intellect and kind hearted. It was the sort of fairy tale that sold well and presently my manuscript was purchased by publishers in London. 

I told Castiel of the news in a hay barn on our farm. He showed his wings then, in the starry night, he let me see the shadows they cast in the bright moonlight. He was an angel through and through and I ran my hands through the black feathers and he shuddered and shook those wings loose. Tendrils like vines sprung from their base and they wrapped me like prey, like treasure and like a delicious dream. He shook and he moaned as each loop tightened around my limbs and sought the warm crevices of my body. 

"I have sprouted sex organs previously unpossessed," he exclaimed into my ear, full of excitement. "That means we are compatible and my people are saved." 

As we lay in the haystacks the thought occurred to me that if he told his people of his discovery my species might be endangered. 

"What if we are treated as chattel? Our own colonial unkindness revisited upon us by your kin? What if we are taken against our will. Castiel you are sweet and noble hearted but are your fellows the same? There is diversity amongst humans so there must be inconsistency in yours. Angels in the Bible are cruel messengers, visiting miracles and wrath in turns." 

Castiel thought long and hard and came to agree with me. 

"I will make a false report," he said. "And only share the location of Earth with a select few I trust. They will arrive here in secret, be subtle and they will swear an oath on their spawn that they will never taken a human against their will. They will mate through love and must always disclose all to their intended." 

My heart was glad at this news. 

"I had been afraid that humans were recluses and would never accept us as we are, but you have shown me nothing but acceptance Deanna and though I think you peerless, I believe in humanity as I believe in you." 

The report must be made in person, he had to journey back to the far off Host Planet he had came from. Even taking the small expedient travel pod he called Impala, it would take thirty years for a return trip. The Impala was not capable of sustaining human life. I must wait for him and wait I would. 

Every Winter morning I walked the Moors, expecting another fiery spectacle. He had said he would return with the snow. Year after year, I waited. 

It was not thirty years hence. 

It is six and sixty. 

I am in good health and he is a time traveller. 

So what is time to me?

=== Excerpt From The Private Writings Of Deanna Winchester, Novelist 1879====

=== Edited by D.M. Winchester Campbell===

I found this story written by my late Aunt, Deanna Winchester, sewn into the seam of her favourite bonnet. Which had been left half finished in her sewing basket along with the original manuscript for Pride & Prejudice a work she published under a popular writing nome de plume. 

What the story does not mention is the local legend that if walk in the Moors on a Winter's day, you might see her spirit wandering the snowy expanse. Some have reported a cherry cheeked maiden writing beneath the boulders. Others speak of a silver haired lady, in riding boots and equestrian wear, riding a black stallion. And then there are accounts of a red haired woman, dressed like a man, standing on the highest peaks, gazing at the sky. She is never a pale ghost, more a lively apparition. 

In my mind, my Aunt is still alive and vigorous, prancing the Moors waiting for her lover from the stars. 

I myself go there, less in the Winter, but the Fall is my favourite season to visit that wilderness. To see the grasses dyed golden by age, the heath silvered over with frost on an early morning, while my horse saddle is warm between my thighs and I might hunt for wild game to store in our larders for the colder climate. 

Yesterday, I saw the fireball. The golden sun that blazed through the night sky. I followed it at a wild gallop and when my horse too fright at the prism of rainbow lights, I jump to the ground and sprinted. 

The man who emerged was the hero himself, exactly as my Aunt wrote about for her whole life, in various incarnations. The same piercing eyes and whimsical smile. 

"Deanna?" He called out to me and when I stepped from the smoke his eyes scanned my body. "You have evolved your gender?" 

He did not sound upset about the idea. 

"I am not Deanna," I said. "I am her nephew, Dean Michael Winchester." 

The creature flared out his wings, the shock of my announcement making them visible perhaps as Deanna had always mentioned they were difficult to see. 

"I will fill her every hour with my presence," he vowed and then with the sound of thunderous wind, he was gone. 

=======

Dean looked across at Castiel, he moved to his feet and knelt down beside the weeping man. 

"What happened?" He asked. "Why did she never see you in the sixty-six years?" 

"I looked, up and down her time line, I could not access it. I could not enter," Castiel's face when Dean pried away his hands was stricken. "I have resided here ever since. This is the closest I can come to her time. This should have been her time but she does not exist here. You are here." 

Dean shuddered at the despair. Castiel sobbed into Dean's neck. His back heaved as Dean stroked his hand down his spine soothingly. 

"I am locked out for she never existed here except as a story. How can you be when the one person you loved doesn't exist?" Castiel asked. 

"I ... I am sorry," Dean said. "I don't understand why your Deanna isn't here. Or why you are for that matter." 

"Are you heartsick like me for another version of me?" Castiel asked, calming as he looked into Dean's eyes. "It is a comfort to see you, even if I know you are not quite mine. Are you in the same predicament? The Castiel you know, the one you met in the orchard in your journal, do you miss him?" 

Dean thought about it and gave a careful answer. "A little. I did not know him very well, but there was a spark and I would like to see him again." 

"It's all tangled up, maybe I'm in the wrong time line, maybe you are, or maybe this is how it was always and will be meant to be. A great knot in time, the threads too wound up to distinguish. I think I hear her call my name on the wind sometimes." 

Dean held the haunted man in his arms for a while. 

"I can stay with you," Dean offered. "It is late." 

The creature scoffed. "You know when you leave it could be the same moment of your arrival." 

"You know what I am offering, solace," Dean said. "Human comfort." 

Castiel looked at Dean, his eyes bright with the remnants of tears. 

"I think you have the room," Dean gestured towards their grand surrounds. "Give me something to write on, I'll pen a letter to my mother, so my absence isn't missed. I do not wish to be returned to my moment of arrival. Just tell her I'll be spending a few days here. She won't mind, she knows I am impulsive and trustworthy." 

"Why would you do that?" Castiel asked in shock. 

"I wanna spend some real time with you, you sound like you've earned it," Dean shrugged. 

Castiel stood up, his ankle holding firm as he bowed deep and seized Dean's hand and kissed his knuckles. 

"It would be an honour to have your company, Dean," Castiel said. 

The afternoon was spent writing to Mary Winchester-Campbell. The letter whisked away from Dean's hand by invisible forces. They sat in the library for the afternoon for the real weather outside was a little dreary. They read the journals, one after another, Castiel recommending his favourites. Some of them contained scenes so descriptive that Dean flushed all over reading them. Others brought him to tears and some made him laugh out loud. Castiel enjoyed the reading. As the sun lowered in the sky, now that they were running in real time, Castiel directed Dean to a fire lit in a huge iron bowl outside. There were meats roasting and smokey soft vegetables buried amidst the charcoals in vined parcels. They ate heartily like hunters and drank from Castiel's special reserve, brewed with fruits ripened under other suns, the juices tasted like honeyed mead. Castiel made some effort to show Dean a number of beautifully laid out rooms, but memorised the route to the master wing and knocked on the door moments after Castiel deposited Dean in his own room. Dean smothered the protests forming on Castiel's tongue with kisses. Afterward, Castiel sat in front of the blazing fireplace and stretched out his wings for Dean to comb his fingers through at his request. Dean rubbed his thumb across the nodules pebbling Castiel's wing base, the tentacles swelling and stretching out to flare one way then the other as Dean caressed them. They remained thin and small, exerted after growing to proportions in accordance with Dean's desires. Flattening out as Dean smoothed his closed lips over them. 

"I would like to mate tomorrow," Castiel said shyly. 

"Did you miss the whole thing? Thought we did a pretty decent job at it just now, I'm gonna be sore in the morning," Dean stretched out behind Castiel, hooking his leg over a wingtip. 

"May I be ... inseminated?" Castiel asked, his face heated as he turned to gaze at Dean. "I will make myself presentable after wooing you during the day and if you find me sufficient for your requirements I would like you to mate with me under the moon." 

Dean smirked. "Depends, you gonna make yourself presentable in a dress? I read you look good in a dress." 

Castiel looked at Dean, his blue eyes searching, after a moment's reflection he smiled. "I have a night dress of white lace just as you were picturing in your mind." 

"Lovely," Dean said. 

Castiel pulled Dean into the shelter of his wings, pressed between the down and the warmth of his chest. They fell asleep and Castiel dreamt of Deanna walking the Moors, smiling at him knowingly.


	9. Chapter 9

Lord Castiel James Novak had everything to live for. The sumptuous grounds of his stately manor, the enduring friendship of his friend Mr Milton and now the excellent company of his guest Mr Winchester. His melancholy sojourns on the Moors ceased when Dean came into his life staying in Hitherfield Hall. He was once again seen riding about town, attending to business at the bank or the post office and in the fall an invitation was sent out to all the gentry and farming households alike for a harvest ball. 

The nature of the relationship between Lord Novak and the eldest Mr Winchester was something no one in the area dared to speculate upon. At least not within hearing of Mary Campbell who would shoot the gossipers such stern looks that it was thought her rancour might blight their crops. Fiercely protective and permissive of Dean’s whims, Mary all but encouraged Dean to stay with the enigmatic aristocrat. Had Dean been a woman, there certainly would have been talk of an engagement being on the cards, as it was wild rumours sprung. That perhaps Lord Novak had a sister (which he did not) in far off Tempestly who the nobleman might bestow upon the handsome Dean Winchester. Or that Lord Novak and Dean Winchester were planning an expedition, some adventurous enterprise to countries far beyond the sea in search of more favourable fortune. All that could be seen on the public occasion of the festive harvest dance was that Lord Novak neither danced nor socialised. He had arranged for Dean and his family to be seated on a high table of honour and made little attempt to talk to anyone except Dean. There was one moment in which something Dean whispered into his ear made him tug his sensuous lips into a sweet sad smile. The rest of the time, he brooded with chin in hand, always polite and attentive towards Dean’s family but with a far away and haunted look in his eyes. Half way through the party, Mr Milton spoke to some hired helpers to evict an unwanted guest, a Mr Ketch in his red army jacket with a ruddy desperate face had pestered to speak with Dean personally. He was sent away with a stiff caution having not even caught a glimpse of Dean’s face. 

“I thank you for this bountiful evening,” Dean whispered to Castiel. “But don’t you think it is high time we got out of here?” 

It was that offer which brought a faint pleasure to Castiel’s face. He followed Dean out of the house and the two gentleman walked closely side by side, away from the lively music and cheerful revelry. They walked out of the garden and rounded the lakes, following the river bank to the roads, cut through the woods and ascended the windblown Moors. The wind was howling low and sombre when Dean put his hand in Castiel’s and squeezed the lord’s cool fingers. 

“I found something here the other day,” Dean said, leading his handsome friend under the pallid moonlight. “It is the most beautiful thing.” 

In between some boulders and far from the roads, a hidden grove of vivid flowers danced in the breeze. They were low and full violets, so numerous and in such huge drifts, that it looked like a small purple lake in amidst the silver heath. It was a warmish evening and Dean tugged on Castiel’s hand to pull him in amongst the flowers. Laying back to sprawl upon the perfumed wildflowers, Dean loosened his dress shirt from his belt with an inviting grin. 

Castiel looked at the unlikely meadow of bloom like a man haunted. He peered into the distance where the starry sky met the swaying heath, then turned his head and listened intently. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, sitting up again to study Castiel’s face. 

There was a strained smile and Castiel crouched down to sit with Dean. “I have treasured every moment of your company Dean ...” 

Dean nodded his head. “But ...” 

“I hear her and I see her,” Castiel said. “A shadow in my shadow, an echo of my hearts’ beats. I am beginning to think that I am the one out of time and not her. The world grow dim like water colour in the rain and you are the brightest thing in it, a saturated constant in a pale watery place.” 

Dean leaned down and plucked a flower, it snapped silently from the fragile stem, petals fluttering. He offered it to Castiel without a word. 

“This flower looks like every other but it isn’t,” Castiel said, taking out the grey journal of Deanna Winchester that was his constant companion. “This one I keep with me.” 

Dean flinched when the book snapped shut with finality. “Are you moving on then, to the next world, to try and find her?” 

Castiel shook his head, staring into the wind sweep across the Moors. “I think she’s found me.”

Dean squinted at the expanse of night and wild weather, seeing nothing. Yet Castiel reached out and touched his hand to the air as if caressing a cheek. There was a familiar sound in the rush of the wind, like slithering and sighing. A clicking sounded in the distance, a whirring booming sound that was almost too low to hear, it was felt more like a vibration through the earth. Castiel gasped and began to smile, such a grand smile it illuminated his pensive features. Dean braced himself for the visitation of some ghastly ghost but the noise and the breeze died down and a not very intimidating figure emerged from the rocky landscape. 

It was Dean’s turn to be surprised as the figure drew near, walking with fluid grace and beaming at him. Castiel in his black velvet suit and top hat, striding forward with a confident gait and warmth in his violet blue eyes. Dean stared from one Castiel to another, bewildered. 

“Oh, of course,” said Lord Novak with hope in his voice. “It’s you.” 

“It is I, you,” said the doppelgänger. “But you must have seen this coming.” 

Lord Novak shrugged elegantly. “It has happened once or twice before, but rare given how much we all travel.” 

“A meeting of the same individual, duplicated in time, two different timelines,” Castiel said winking at Dean. “Are you trembling from fear or excitement?” 

Lord Novak put a hand out to Dean’s shoulder rather protectively. “Do not fear, we are no threat to you.” 

Dean shook his head again, licking his lips to moisten them. “I’m not afraid for me!” 

“Then you are truly clever and you have guessed what must happen,” said the previously lonesome Lord Novak. “He is exactly the creature who will help me out of this mess. For he is my ending and my beginning anew.” 

Dean shivered at those words, the confident Castiel, the one he instinctively knew was the alien in his dreams in the barn. The one he now remembered from another life time who acquiesced so easily to changing the future for him. The gulling one with a voracious appetite and a twinkle in his eyes. The warmth suffusing Dean’s chest at the sight of this familiar stranger made his blood run hotter. 

“You got a lot to answer for pal,” Dean called out to him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’ve come to tend to the garden, of course.” Came the non-reply. 

“What garden, Cas?” Dean said with exasperation, gesturing at the wilderness around them. 

“The violets,” Castiel said. “You said you liked them. So I grew them for you.” 

Dean looked around and frowned. How long must that have taken? A decade? Two? 

“I cultivated them to lure you into a mating, but of course you have already mated with this other individual.” 

Was that a note of sourness in Castiel’s tone? Dean looked at him sharply. 

“Well, you weren’t here,” Dean said quickly. “And I kind of forgot about you.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Earthlings.” 

Lord Novak interjected. “Actually, he is very remarkable, he recalled you in his writing and he recognises you now. Such complex connections must lie between you.”

“We do share a more profound bond,” Castiel said with a touch of pride. “But I see you two in my nest and I am well ... shall we all three have a go?” 

Dean blinked in shock. “What?” 

“We could both mate with you and let chance take its course,” Castiel explained. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, a double insemination.” 

Dean baulked at the idea. “Wait I was going to do the inserting.” 

“Really?” Castiel sounded incredulous. “How would that work?” 

“Do you want a demonstration?” Dean said sarcastically. 

“That would be instructive,” Castiel countered with a smirk. 

“Don’t tease the human,” Lord Novak said. “You know what must be done.” 

“But we could do that after,” Castiel said with a quirk of his mouth. “Dean appears in his prime and I would say he could take us both even at our most amorous. Surely you are aware of that after all the time you had him in your bed.” 

This was said with some possessiveness but no real jealousy. Castiel seemed to have accepted Dean’s offers of solace to Lord Novak with little judgement. 

“Perhaps he is even more fecund and fertile than the female you were so enamoured with.” 

That seemed certainly the wrong thing to have been said by Castiel, for a great shudder of grief came over Lord Novak. 

“As tempting as it sounds, I must decline,” he said with a grimace. “I am unable to lift a single tentacle without my dearest heart.” 

“What is this maudlin sentimentality?” Castiel exclaimed, scanning his counterpart’s face with fascination. “Your complexion lacks lustre and your scent is acrid.” 

“It is ... longing,” Lord Novak said. “Wishing for the impossible. Yearning for release.” 

“Release? Do you mean ejaculation? You know that Dean here is the very creature you desire, perhaps a different gender but he would be equally receptive and I am sure his semen is of the very highest quality and carries most desirous genetic materials.” 

“Yeesh Cas, flatter a guy why don’t you,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t you get it? Lord Novak here is in love, I think it’s rather romantic.” 

Castiel inclined his head as if Dean had just proposed Castiel should swallow the moon. 

“Why would feelings matter?” He asked. “They are such fleeting biological reactions.” 

“Well, and that is why he had me in his bed for a month while you’re out here watering flowers so it seems,” Dean pouted. “Can’t believe you’re my Cas. Of all the time alternate versions I could have ended up with, I get this guy.” 

Lord Novak began to shake his shoulders, at first Dean was concerned he had aggrieved the sensitive creature and made him cry again, but soon he realised it was laughter rather than tears. 

“You two are welcome to each other,” he said. “I think Deanna would have found you both very amusing.” 

Then a quiet conviction overcame him and he marched up to his double. “I am ready.” 

“You could have me,” said Castiel to Lord Novak. “This is your world.” 

“Hardly, not since her departure,” came the certain reply. 

“I understand,” Castiel bowed a little formally. “It will be a great honour.” 

Dean batted his eyes when his Castiel seized Lord Novak by the back of the head and touched their lips together. A flush ran down Dean’s body, embarrassed desire flooded him but before his excitement could take hold, horror struck him still. The two Castiels were kissing intensely, their tongues entangling aggressively. They looked too long and too dark in the night, and the teeth were beginning to look too white and sharp. Then one opened his mouth a little wider and Dean shut his eyes completely. It took only an instant, the sounds were squelching and wet, then there was quiet hiccup and a tap on Dean’s shoulder. 

“You ate ... you!” Dean pointed a finger at Castiel. “What the fuck Cas!” 

There was a sheepish grin and a delicate dabbing at the mouth, then an alert faraway gaze. 

“There they are,” Castiel pointed at a distant hill.

Dean strained his eyes towards the bright moon eclipsed bluff. He could see two glimmering shapes. A lively petite woman waving energetically at them and a stock still figure, hands folded and smiling at last. 

“I’m stunning as a woman,” Dean said cockily, raising his hand to gesture back until the two ghosts faded into a shimmering fog as they walked away towards he horizon. “So they’re dead or what?” 

“They are in another universe, an alternative of this one, reunited,” Castiel stated. “I have all of his memories, his physical body was consumed by mine but his existence and his timeline continues elsewhere. Think of it as osmosis or symbiosis. When things get too messy along time lines this happens and we tidy up amongst ourselves.” 

“Well that’s neat,” Dean remarked, looking at Castiel with fresh eyes. This was his Castiel, he felt right. “So big orgy meadow nest thing, what are we gonna do with it now?” 

Castiel looked abashed. “I have not yet, quite managed, that is I have not developed all of my sexual organs ...” 

“You got hands and junk right?” Dean lifted an eyebrow challengingly. 

“Yes but those such mundane human appendages,” Castiel countered. “I would be mortified to be confined to their use ...” 

“Oh yeah? I might only have hands and a penis but they are pretty useful,” Dean said confidently. “Seeing as you have made this lovely bed of blooms we might want to ...” 

“We could sit and watch the worlds transpire,” Castiel said enthusiastically. “See that shimmer over in the corner of the sky? It’ll slowly move over this whole scene and soon we’ll be in another universe. The time lines are splitting apart now that we have address our nexus.”

“And if I wanna do stuff while we watch that?” Dean asked suggestively. 

“You are quite insatiable,” Castiel said, blushing as he examined through Lord Novak’s memories. “That is an unexpected thing to do with a pineapple.” 

Dean winked at Castiel. “I damn well hope I remember you this time around.” 

Castiel stared into Dean’s eyes. “I hope so too, Dean.”


End file.
